


uneasy lies the crown

by rorysluckydress



Category: Gilmore Girls, Gilmore Girls: A Year in the Life - Fandom
Genre: Canon Continuation, F/M, Romance, a year in the life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-02 13:13:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8668957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rorysluckydress/pseuds/rorysluckydress
Summary: Tired of almosts, what ifs, and mistakes, Logan and Rory realize they're on a road to nowhere, and it's time to take action. You jump, I jump, Jack.Set in/after A Year in the Life: Fall (aka beware of spoilers).





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Logan doesn't tell Rory he loves her even though he does.

Logan has never thought of time as his enemy, except with Rory. With Rory, time snakes its cold, grisly hand around his throat and tightens its grasp little by little, hour by hour. He never knew time could _hurt_.

One or two or three more minutes, and they’ll reach another goodbye. He’s tempted to look at his watch and follow the second and minute hands with his eyes, but he knows he’ll regret it if he doesn’t follow her instead, soak in every inch of her and commit everything to memory. Some things can be recalled from pictures, but he'll never forgive himself if he forgets Rory’s expressions or her voice or her laugh.

“I think your days of rescuing me are over,” she says. There’s finality in her tone, and he hates it. The chokehold grows tighter, and ice makes its way down his spine. (She loves him, doesn’t she? Why can’t he just ask?)

“Oh, you never really needed rescuing, Ace. You know that.”

He doesn’t ask her if she’s dying inside like he is, like he does every single time one of them has to walk away. He doesn’t tell her the truth about his relationship with Odette either, that it’s an open one, that he broached the subject with his French fiancé the same day he saw Rory in Hamburg, and despite the self-loathing that coated his tongue like glue when he asked, Odette accepted the terms with enthusiasm (he suspects she has a lover or two in France and doesn’t much care either way). Having made an embarrassing habit of self-help advice books and columns and podcasts, he'd learned that you should never open an existing relationship with a specific person in mind, but Rory is as far from specific as a woman can get. She is the whole world; she is the sun, the stars, and the moon.

Logan doesn’t tell Rory he loves her even though he does.

“I do now.” She smiles (brokenly? Even broken, she’s so beautiful that he can’t tell for sure, can’t find it in himself to ask. Why can’t he just ask?).

After they’ve kissed goodbye (for now? Forever? God, don’t let it be forever), he puts that ridiculous hat on her head and has her smile again so he can tuck the memory away for safekeeping. He doesn’t mention that he replays her smile in his head whenever he’s feeling defeated or apathetic about where his life is going. He doesn’t tell her that he feels like a hypocritical phony for falling back under his father’s wing after losing his job. He’s Icarus tempting fate whenever he tests his father’s patience, whenever he pushes the old man to be more egalitarian and more generous (hell, more like the person Logan wishes he could be). The feathers and wax start to drip and protest, and he flies back to safety, to dissatisfaction and dependency. Yet safety doesn’t feel safe. Rory feels safe. Rory feels _right_. Rory smiles, and he forgets about the sun and sea because she encompasses both.

He holds up his hands, frames her face. “Yeah, just like that.”

 _Ask me to stay,_ he wants to yell. _Ask me to stay, and I’ll never leave your side again._ Does she want him to marry Odette, to be free of him and get the hell out of this inn and their symbolic, omnipresent Vegas?

 _Goddammit_ , why can’t he just ask?

Logan knows why, though; deep down, he does. It’s because Rory owes him absolutely nothing, never has and never will. It was obvious when she turned down his proposal ten years ago (did he see it coming? Probably. Did it still hurt? Like hell). He doesn’t want to ask anything of her, even if restraining himself means living with a war raging in his mind, a power struggle between obligation and aspiration. He doesn’t feel bound to the “dynastic plan,” not really, but Rory has never hinted at desiring anything more than Vegas, so that’s what he’s given her. He’ll give until he can’t give anymore, until his veins, blue and green under his skin, feel like they’re popping out of his arms and legs and chest from the strain. Until she says she doesn’t want anything he has to offer. Maybe that’s what she’s saying now.

He doesn’t know because he won’t ask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So general feelings on the revival: no, wtf, why. This Tumblr post has been helping feed my bitter soul: "how to get all the scenes and still get screwed over, a summary written by rogan fans." I'm generally confused by the characterization and regression of Rory and Logan - it's like S7 was ignored entirely (and yeah, it was a weak season, but c'mon, Palladinos, there's no need to do us dirty because you're bitter). Anyway, I tried to justify some of what went on (cheating is bad, v bad, I know, but let me protect my son, Logan Huntzberger). Let me know what you think!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rory tells Lorelai she's pregnant, and it doesn't go as planned.

Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.

It’s all Rory can think after those two words – _I’m pregnant_ – fall from her mouth like ashes floating down from a burning building. Lorelai looks at her in accusation, like she has set all of Stars Hollow ablaze, those words – _I’m pregnant_ – acting as a raincloud of gasoline and a thousand matches. _I’m pregnant._ She still has to repeat it to herself sometimes, just so she remembers that it’s real.

Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown, especially when it was your mother who built your throne with blood and sweat and tears and frozen pizza and Pop-tarts and bad Lifetime movies.

“I – I don’t know what to say. Who?”

“Logan.”

Lorelai actually cringes – _cringes_. Rory feels anger swim up through her stomach; it claws at her insides and gasps for air and recognition.

“When? Where?”

“Does it matter?”

It doesn’t. They both know it doesn’t. Neither brings up abortion or adoption, either, because they also know that Rory will have this baby no matter what.

“How could you be so irresponsible, Rory?” Lorelai is twisting the ring she’s only just put on, the ring that took over ten years to stick. Rory stares at her mother’s fingers and wants something different, something more. “You are better than this,” Lorelai continues, shaking her head in disappointment as her voice gets louder and shriller. “Logan is _engaged_ , and he won’t want to be a real parent to this child. It’ll put his whole business at risk, his family’s reputation—”

“Do you really think so little of him?” The anger has won out; she’s standing and yelling now, and she doesn’t care. “I went to see Dad to ask him about the choices he made with me—”

“You _what_?”

“I know Logan wouldn’t make the same mistakes, that he would want to be involved with this child. Dad tried to argue that you wouldn’t have wanted him to be part of my life, that you were too independent and strong.” Lorelai rolls her eyes, but Rory knows it’s because she’s trying not to cry.

“It was bullshit,” Rory says. She doesn’t know what she wanted her father to say…or maybe she does. Maybe she hoped he'd say that he regretted not fighting to help raise her, that he wished he’d been there to see her take her first steps, say her first word, board the bus on her first day of kindergarten. All of those firsts. She pictures him with his hands in his suit jacket, still a bit too big for his lanky, twenty-one-year-old build, his eyes misting over as she hunched under the weight of her book-filled backpack.

But she knows better.

Her father doesn’t have a bad heart, but he’s milquetoast. Rory starting to walk would have meant fear of table corners and open sockets; talking would've meant he’d have to watch his language and use closed captioning on raunchy sitcoms. Kindergarten would’ve been a blessing, worthy of celebration rather than mourning – six whole hours of freedom from worry and responsibility, five days a week. She knows that Christopher has always been too weak to face problems head-on, that he throws money at issues in the hope that they’ll go away, and when that doesn't work he disappears. No baby girl has use for a fistful of cash unless she’s using it to wipe pureed carrots off her mouth. It's probable that Christopher would have ended up leaving eventually, even if he and Lorelai had stayed together.

Lorelai’s subtle hints that Logan is Rory’s Christopher have always hurt, but after hearing from her father first-hand about why he chose to bow out of their lives, they hurt more than ever. She doesn’t harbor significant resentment toward her father. Just disappointment.

“He didn’t fight to be with us because he didn’t want to,” says Rory, “because it was easier to leave you alone than be a teenaged father, and I’ve mostly forgiven him for that. Even if he had been here to help, you two weren’t ever right for each other, and I can see that now. Just look at how happy you were five minutes ago – it was always supposed to be you and Luke.”

Her mother has a hand over her mouth, and Rory suspects it’s acting as a method of sob containment. Lorelai’s eyes are glued to the decorations in the trees, to the unlit strings of lights and gauzy, orange silks. She won’t even look at Rory.

“But,” Lorelai says, her voice watery, the voice of someone in the process of coming up for air after almost drowning. Someone still under threat of waves and currents. Her eyes dart from the trees to her feet. “But you think that since Logan is older and you two have some kind of hot and heavy, Angelina and Brad in _Mr. and Mrs. Smith_ thing going on, that he won’t be like Christopher. Well, newsflash, Rory. Angelina was way better off without Brad, and she realized it too late, just like you will.” Lorelai rubs her cheeks like window wipers on full speed in a storm; the motion looks effective, but her hands have very little effect. Her face stays puffy and wet. “You think he’ll be willing to give things up for you that Chris wouldn’t give up for me, but I’m not so sure.”

“I think that when Grandpa had a heart attack ten years ago that Logan was there!” Lorelai flinches and turns even further away, but Rory is shaking in indignation, and the sky being so blue and clear is pissing her off further. It should be stormy or snowing; frankly, she’d settle for cloudy with a chance of meatballs, anything other than this perfect morning, more like summer than autumn. She thinks back to that day in the hospital, how terrified she felt, how grateful she was that Logan came. The memory came to her in her father's office, like a warm breeze in the midst of all of the chilly beige and grey and stilted conversation, and she realized how ridiculous she was being. Of course she would tell Logan; of course he would want to be the doting, kind, _present_ father his own - and her own- never were. A fresh wave of anger hits her, though she's not sure if it's anger at her mother, her father, or herself. “Logan was in that hospital in spite of his million responsibilities and the pressure from his new job, and yet, Dad couldn’t be found even though you two were married!  _Married_ , and he didn’t bother showing up for hours and hours! I had to force Logan to _leave_!”

Her mother finally looks at her. Rory knows that her halo has dimmed and her wings have been clipped, but she’s on solid ground with Lorelai for the first time in a long time.

Blue eyes and brokenness: her inheritance.

Maybe Lorelai is just now realizing the extent of the latter; maybe she didn’t want to believe that Rory’s insecurity and self-absorption and easy discouragement were traits rather than phases. Is it amusing that Rory went out with a man for three years – a sweet man, a good man – and cared so little about him that she forgot to break up with him? Is it cute that she doesn’t know how to cook outside of sticking a hot pocket in the oven, that Lorelai didn’t teach her how to function like a normal adult? Is it okay that she feels like a failure when she isn’t an irrefutable success?

“Y-you’re right,” Lorelai whispers. The fire is out in both of them; they’re skeletons of bone with heaving chests, stripped clean and smoking. “You’re right.”

Rory lets the tears fall then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the positive feedback!! I really appreciated your comments, and it's nice to know that other people have similar views on the revival. Let me know what you think of this chapter! I literally yelled at the TV when "Fall" ended. It was something like, "WHAT? Wait....WHAT?!" So this is my version of what comes after.  
> I hope I wasn't too harsh on Lorelai because I love her dearly, but she has a tendency to put Rory on an unrealistically high pedestal, and I wanted to address that issue in their relationship. I'm not sure how long this story will go; at the moment, I'm just writing and seeing where the characters take me (oh God, that sounded so pretentious; I promise I'm not a little, literary snot!!!).


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Logan is a hot mess. He and Odette have a long overdue chat. 
> 
> Song recs for this chapter: "Me, Liquor, and God" - Night Beds, "Tiny Cities" - Flume feat. Beck, "Fake Empire" - The National

Logan suspects he may have entered into what people call a “downward spiral.”

He hasn’t been to work in days; instead, he's building up his resume with enticing attributes: Skilled at flipping water bottles onto their caps, can eat four and a half saltines in one minute, able to watch every _Lord of the Rings_ movie in one sitting.

He can’t find any clean socks, though there _is_ a dirty pair lying on the arm of his couch that doesn’t smell too foul (as in he can venture toward it without wishing he were wearing a hazmat suit). He’s lucky he can find anything at all in the apartment, which looks like it’s hosted a couple of rowdy frat parties, a Category 1 Hurricane, and the Jason Bourne pen versus knife fight scene.

Logan also suspects he may be tipsy. The three empty glasses of scotch on the table all but confirm this, as does his inexplicable decision to drink out of three separate glasses.

He knows it’s pathetic and immature to day drink his worries away, but that last goodbye to Rory has shattered his illusion of contentment. It’s not her absence, per se, that’s led to him sitting cross-legged on the floor with multiple dirty socks sitting on his shoulder (though it certainly hasn’t helped), but kissing her goodbye lifted the mist that had been shrouding his world in hazy shades of grey, keeping him docile and satisfied and comfortable. It had been an illusion so powerful he hadn’t known to look for the trick. 

Then again, maybe he wanted to be fooled – fooled into thinking he was feeling. Fooled into thinking he was living. In reality, he’s been nothing more than a puppet controlled by his strings, a bunny stuffed into a hat and pulled out for big reveals – engagement parties and business deals, polo matches and client luncheons. Maybe the audience has been jeering rather than cheering all along.

Some trick.

Upon reflection, he knows that Rory was always the closest to real, to color, that he got – bursts of yellow when she smiled, a flash of purple when he couldn’t read her face, a blanket of soft blue when they would lie in bed wrapped up in one another, the rest of the dull, dreary world be damned.

He doesn’t know how he let things get this bad. Being rejected felt like being tied up and run over by a freight train, but he was only twenty-five at the time. There was no one else like Rory, yet he’d lived without her before and knew he could do it again; it wasn't the catalyst for his subsequent retreat from his values and the pathetic homecoming of the wayward, not-so-prodigal son. Losing his job was a significant factor, the company for which he’d been so proud to work going under only a couple years after Rory’s graduation. The recession, a rabid, dying beast, snapped its blood-soaked jaws and latched onto anything it could, and the small media company in California became one of its last victims.

Then, his mother got breast cancer.

It made it easier to go home. He’s disgusted with himself when he thinks about how he used her illness as an excuse, a crutch.

Maybe he's not being entirely fair with himself. He cared for her; he did, and he knows that. Every chemo session. Every doctor’s appointment. He wielded the razor when she decided it was time, sheared her scalp until clumps of blonde covered the marble countertop in his parents’ en suite. His father was supportive, and his overwhelmed, terrified sister tried to help, but it was Logan who did everything.

Still, he propped up his failure with her sickness, leaned on it to support his decision to go back to his father’s company. By the time his mother entered remission, he was fully back in the family fold. Four years later, and there was Odette, whom his father practically flung into his arms. It was easy and encouraged, and he regrets every minute he spent courting her. That’s what it was: Nineteenth century, _Age of Innocence_ , female-ankles-being-considered-scandalous courting.

They don’t talk much anymore.

They never talked a lot, were never each other’s confidantes or friends. They never did much of anything – he’d pepper her with compliments; she’d feign modesty. He’d buy her chocolates; she’d take a bite or two and toss them out (he’s never found the packages, but he knows. He _knows)._ Their relationship has an expiration date; it’s a carton of milk going sour, and Logan is the lost boy whose picture is printed on the side. He needs to tell her today – needs to tell her _right now_ – that he can’t do it anymore, can’t sit on a shelf and curdle.

“Logan? Logan, are you in ze living room?” He smells her before he sees her: Chanel No. 5, so strong he can taste it. His mouth protests the intrusion – it’s like crushed flowers, mothballs, and the makeup his grandmother uses to powder her nose. He doesn’t want it any closer, knowing the smell will creep up into his brain and down his throat, but he has to answer.

“Yeah!”

She glides in – Odette doesn’t walk anywhere; she glides. There are clicks whenever her heels hit the sporadic spots of wood showing through the mess. “What are you doing in ’ere? You did not go to work again?”

“I’m taking some sick days.”

“Are you sick?”

“Sure, I am – sick of my job.”

She grimaces, her pink lips twisting in displeasure.

“Come on, it was a joke. Not my best, I’ll admit, but—”

“When are you going back to ze office? Your father told me zat you ’ave a big meeting next week.” Odette sits on the edge of the couch after brushing off the socks, so he has to strain his neck to look at her from his spot on the floor. She’s beautiful; he’ll give her that – dark ringlets, chocolate eyes, and pale skin smooth as butter.

“I don’t know.” Honesty is a rarity for them. Most of the time, they lie by omission, keeping reality hidden behind the metaphorical curtain and pretending to be the “great and powerful” even at their weakest. It takes energy to hold back, to keep words imprisoned, and it’s energy that Logan doesn’t possess right now. “I might never go back.”

“Never? Logan, are you all right?” She cares; he can see it in her face. She wants him to be all right. Whether her concern comes from a place of empathy or a place of self-preservation, he can’t be sure, but he supposes he’s grateful either way.

“No, I’m not,” he says. A charcoal sock droops over the leaves of a ficus plant across the room; another slides off his shoulder. “I’m ridiculously unhappy.” It’s time to end things, to cut this off like a dead rose bloom so that something else, something bigger and more beautiful, can grow in its place. “Odette, I—”

“I thought so. I ’ave known about your unhappiness for a while now.”

“ _What?_ You have?”

“I am not so dense zat I cannot see what is right in front of me. You do not want to get married, and I ’ave no interest in being married to someone who does not want me.”

Odette kicks off her heels and slides down next to him. Her perfume might just suffocate him if he doesn’t die of shock first.

“You-you don’t want to get married then?”

“No.” She shrugs as if she’s telling him that no, the weather channel isn’t calling for rain today. No, there aren’t any clouds in the sky. No, the temperature isn’t going to drop.

No, I don’t want to spend the rest of my life with you.

Logan can almost feel his strings being cut, the autonomy coming back to his limbs. “I was just about to tell you that I wanted to call it off. I can’t believe we’ve been going through the motions for so long.”

She smiles, and it’s ironic and relieved and genuine and shows all of her teeth. He’s never liked her more. “We are a couple of fools, you and I. May I ask one question?”

“Sure, anything you want.”

“What is ’er name?”

“Her name?”

Odette sighs, picking a piece of lint off her tights. “Louis – zat is ze name of who I ’ave been seeing in Paris. ’E is older, but ’e is kind, and I am ’appy around ’im.” It’s the most forthcoming she’s ever been. Logan stretches out his legs on the floor and leans into the couch. His right hand touches something soft, and he pulls out a pair of socks – small, feminine, and _clean_.

“Rory,” Logan says. “Her name’s Rory.”

He should call her. She could be missing these.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to start doing song recs because why the heck not. I apologize to you, dear readers, for the nonexistent Rory/Logan interaction in this chapter and to Amy and Dan for giving Odette a personality, which they clearly had no intention of doing (whoop, there it is). I'm afraid there's one more chapter to go before the real ~Rogan~ craziness starts. I hope this was enjoyable even without our homegirl Rory in it - let me know what you thought! Your comments seriously make my day!!!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rory is ALSO a hot mess. She meets up with Jess and tells him (most of) the reasons why.
> 
> Song recs for this one: "Acid Tongue" - Jenny Lewis, "Make It Better" - Hazel English

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Throwing in one more Logan/Rory-less chapter because Rory needs to take her turn getting put through the ringer. Boom, roasted. The next one will have pay-off, don't worry. Thank you for all of the comments; I SO appreciate them and take all of your thoughts/requests into consideration since I'm basically flying by the seat of my pants here.

A couple days after her mom and Luke’s wedding, Jess asks her if she’s ever pictured them ending up together. It’s in a way that makes her feel like if she says no, she’ll wound his pride more than his heart, which is a relief. She _has_ pictured it but not in any way that matters. A willing victim of the “what if” game, she’s been haunted by coffee-fueled, relentless self-doubt, which rubs against her choices like a piece of sandpaper. Reality creeps in, though; it always does. Jess hasn’t been in her life in four years, despite them both being in big northeastern cities. The timing has been exactly right, no struggle or serendipity or subterfuge required, and yet neither of them has picked up the phone to say, “I miss you. I want to be with you. It’s pouring down rain, but I’m running to catch a train right now, and I’ll be at your apartment in two hours.”

Plans have come undone like loose knots, rain checks turning into months with only an email or two passed back and forth. The truth is, they don’t have much in common anymore, and they never really did aside from a thirst for change and a penchant for pretentious literature. Their shared dissatisfaction with the status quo manifested itself in different ways – he ran from Stars Hollow; she came back. He always ran. A thought flies in unbidden, eighteen-year-old Jess running his hands up and down her jeans, pushing her onto a stranger’s bed during a party, his eyes flashing in irritation and surprise when she said the word _wait_ and meant _no_. A few steps ahead. He’s always been a few steps ahead. Her fingers start to itch.

“Rory?”

“You deserve more than this, Jess,” she says, gesturing vaguely, not sure exactly what she means, only that wherever he is right now, a metaphorical three or four or five steps ahead of her, she doesn’t have a desire to catch up. She fiddles with a packet of sugar for something to do with her hands. “You deserve the truth. I’m not…I’m not the person you think I am.”

“What are you talking about?” His voice is gentle but confident. “You’re the best person I know. You’re brilliant and kind and gen—”

“I’ve been having an affair with Logan for over a year,” she says, the confession barely above a whisper. Tiny, blue pieces of paper dot the metal table as Rory rips them off the packet.

“Logan? Logan Huntzberger?”

“How many Logans do you know?” Her face heats up, and she knows she’s blushing. She wishes it were out of embarrassment or shame or guilt, but at this moment, those are only trace elements in her body. The real cause – the real source of her sympathetic nerve system inconveniently kicking into high gear and opening blood vessels in her cheeks – is that she’s been on the verge of calling Logan for what feels like ages. Her phone is an extension of her right hand, an awkward, rectangular mitten only shed to type and eat. Those activities take up most of her time these days. Typing. Eating. Occasionally sleeping.

“One too many,” Jess mutters, answering her rhetorical question. He looks self-conscious for the first time and crosses his navy, wool-clad arms.

“I was with Paul during my entire affair with Logan,” Rory says, “and by with, I mean I kept forgetting to break up with him, which sounds really horrible when I say it out loud.” The packet of sugar slides out of her hand, skitters off the table, and leaves a trail of white cutting across the metal. “I was selfish – I _am_ selfish. I should have stopped going out with him after a month, which is when I realized I wasn’t interested in an actual relationship. I mean, the guy talked about cat videos for half an hour on our third date. _Cat videos._ ”

“So I guess it’s a dog-eat- _cat_ dating world, then. Look, Rory—”

“No, please let me finish. Please.” Begging to admit wrongdoing feels strange, but she knows Jess will be more understanding than her mother, and she doesn’t need absolution from him, not like she does from Lorelai. Acknowledgment would be good, though. Acknowledgment that she screwed up. Acknowledgment that it’s not too late to get her life back on track, to remember all of the things she used to want.

“The floor is yours,” Jess says, nodding. He picks up a sugar packet of his own but dumps it into his coffee instead of using it as a stress reliever.

Rory takes a deep breath. “I’m not the girl you fell in love with, and I’m not the girl who loved you. I’m not naïve or full of dreams and ambition. I think if high school me met the current me, I’d be disgusted with myself, that it would be like _Oops I Did it Again!_ Britney meeting 2007 shaved head, mental breakdown Britney swinging around an umbrella. I’m a cheater and a failure, I’m tired, and I’m on the verge of needing an umbrella. Or an Elin-smashing-the-Escalade golf club.”

“Still have your hair, at least,” Jess says. “No head shaving yet.” She laughs a little despite her throat feeling hot and raw, as if there’s a cheese grater lodged inside, ready to shred her vocal chords like Parmesan. She knows it means she’s on the verge of crying, and she can’t cry again.

“Still have my hair,” she agrees.

“Rory.” Jess folds his hands on the table. It looks like he means business, like he’s going to reveal a banker’s offer and ask if it’s deal or no deal. “Everyone messes up. Your problem is you’ve never been allowed to, not with your mom and not in this town. Stars Hollow somehow simultaneously worships you and still handles you with kid gloves.”

“You shouldn’t let me off that easy,” Rory argues. No deal, then. She’s been forgiven too easily for too long, and she certainly doesn’t deserve immediate acceptance from Jess. Things are still blurry, but they’re coming back into focus, like an optometrist is rotating a set of glass slides until Rory finds perfect clarity, until she can see the tiniest letters in the pyramid. Right now it’s more like an R here, a G and H at the end, some squiggles in the middle. She needs someone to fight her on this, to keep rotating the slides.

“My mom and the town haven’t helped,” she says, “but I’ve been given so much, _so much_ , and I haven’t made anything of it, haven’t made good choices or worked as hard as I should have.”

“What do you mean? You went to Yale; you followed Obama’s campaign and worked your ass off.”

“Yeah, I did, and then the campaign job didn’t turn into another, and things got hard.” She sighs and takes a sip of her tea (what she really needs is coffee; she needs an IV of coffee immediately but can’t have one because apparently the life form inside of her is a tiny masochist). “Things had never really been hard before. My grandparents paid for Chilton and Yale, and I was a really good, dedicated student, the best other than Paris, but I don’t know. Sometimes I think Logan’s dad was right when he told me I didn’t have ‘it,’ the right drive and energy for journalism, I mean. Other times, I think maybe I’d been entitled for too long and got lazy. I stopped trying.”

It’s taken her weeks of brutal self-reflection to come to these realizations, as ugly as they are. Working on the book has helped shed light onto some of the darker parts of who she is, parts that need dusting out, parts that need repair, and parts that just _are_ and require nothing more than awareness. If you know the metaphorical monster under the bed is there, if you can name the skeletons in your closet, are they still capable of instilling fear? At the very least, they can’t be as threatening. Just what she thought before – acknowledgement. That’s what she needs.

“I like the good life, the comfortable life, the Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie life – real not _Simple_ ,” Rory continues, shrugging. “My mom would hate to hear me say that, but it’s true. It’s one of the things Logan and I have in common, only I embrace it and get indolent, and he uses it as a springboard to work harder and achieve more.” She laughs humorlessly. “I blew an interview at a startup lifestyle blog because I thought I was too good for the job, that I was an overqualified shoe-in. I’m an idiot. Honestly may as well reboot _The Simple Life_ and film me struggling to flip burgers at Luke’s.”

Jess has been quiet for too long. It probably means that he agrees with her, which is what she thought she wanted. Now she’s not so sure.

“I’m done,” she says, picking at her nails. “Feel free to jump in on the Rory-bashing.”

Jess sighs and pushes away his empty mug (oh, what she wouldn’t give for a mug of coffee right now). “You are many things, Rory Gilmore,” he says. “An idiot is not one of them.” He checks his watch. “Sorry. I gotta head out now, but enough with the pity party.”

“Hey, it’s my party; I’ll cry if I want to.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. You know, if you’re planning on entering the service industry, I’d like to place an order – a large reality check with a side of optimism. Hold the mayo.” He smiles, drums his fingers on the table. “Come on, things aren’t that bad. Something will come along, and you’ll get back on your feet.” He pulls on his leather jacket and stands, stretching his arms.

“I hope so. Thanks, Jess.”

“See you later, Rory.”

She thought talking with Jess would be therapeutic, but she still feels as pathetic as Lesley Gore singing about Johnny leaving her party with Judy (Logan would be Johnny, and Odette would be Judy in this scenario, right? Wait, no, she can’t make connections to her personal life right now, not when her career has been run through a trash compactor and dumped unceremoniously in the dingy office building of a free gazette). Still, admitting everything that’s been on her mind to another, living, breathing human being was satisfying, and she’s planning to have a similar conversation with Lane this afternoon and tell her about the pregnancy, too.

She has no answers, though. It’s clear that Jess thinks something will drop into her lap like it has in the past, and for all his moaning about Stars Hollow’s indulgence, he’s not criticizing her passivity either. He said she was still a contender, but how can she be in the game if she’s sitting on the sidelines?

Damn it, she could use some coffee right about now.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rory tries to stop thinking about Logan by means of punk music and Pop-tarts. She fails miserably.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An update two days in a row whaaaa? And longest chapter yet!!! Yeah, this is not going to happen next week because I'm going to be insanely busy, so there may be a bit of a wait. On a brighter note, we are getting into the real fun now!! Gilmore Girls has never been plot-heavy, but I think my Stars Hollow homies have had enough self-reflection for now. In the words of one of my favorite British musicians, "let's see action." This chap is lighter and features the flawless and too oft-neglected Lane, one of the O.G. ladies of the Gilmore world. Let me know what you think!
> 
> Chapter-accompanying song recs: "Wake Up - Cuebrick Remix" - Chelsea Cutler, "Too Much Is Never Enough" - Florence + The Machine

Rory’s thumb hovers over Logan’s contact in her phone (in this one, he’s listed as Logan see-no-evil monkey Huntzberger; she thinks if she psycho-analyzed the choice of emoji, she could draw some unflattering conclusions about her denial of Odette’s existence and the cheating, but it’s too early in the morning for that particular strain of navel-gazing).

Her phone reads 7:39 A.M., and she stuffs it between two cushions to avoid the temptation to call him. Her hand aches immediately.

Lane’s couch is just lumpy enough to feel lived in but not shabby, and she doesn’t think she’ll notice anything if by some chance her cell vibrates and it’s _him_ calling _her._ The floor, however, does feel as if it’s shaking – Hep Alien is practicing a punk tune, as seven in the morning is the only time that works for all of the members. They’re “real” people with “real” jobs now, and Rory wants to vomit when she thinks about her open invitation to the thirty-something gang, whose members certainly do _not_ have real jobs. Since when is drinking other people’s milkshakes an activity? Maybe she’s being a snob. Maybe they’re fun.

“Last one, guys!” Zack says to the band, his forehead shiny with sweat. He could use a milkshake.

The song’s lyrics are angsty and reminiscent of teenaged strife, and it takes Rory back to trying on her first Chilton skirt, insisting that her mother keep it below the knees, having her butterfly-inducing first kiss with Dean, getting Jess’s heartbreaking call from California… Sometimes she thinks she felt everything more strongly back then – her nerves and excitement stayed tangled together in a ball of unease, heightening every other emotion. Increasingly over the years, she started to skate by and detach, completing every activity like she was on an assembly line. Focus, efficiency, compartmentalization – she thought she needed to be cold to be a powerful, respected woman in her field, but the emotional repression hadn’t been healthy. Somewhere along the line, she got so frigid, so cut off from herself, she no longer had any heart or warmth in her writing and certainly none left for other people. The bright-eyed girl who wrote a heart wrenching, funny, dynamic piece on paving over a parking lot feels far away.

Listening to the ocean through a seashell, that’s what it’s been like. You can pretend that you’re hearing real waves crashing on the sand, but it’s nothing more than the noise of wherever you are whirring through the shell’s cavity. Cupping your hands over your ear has the same effect – there’s no magic involved, no romantic connection to the water and waves. Just the world whispering in your ear _._ For years, she’s heard nothing more than an echo of the sea, of the passion and love and joy she used to possess, but there’s been no sand between her toes or foam tickling her feet. Nothing real.

Rory feels like one of those seashells – a phony, a false promise of something beautiful.

When she saw Logan in Hamburg, she was the most miserable and lost she’d been in months. He helped her remember why she’d loved writing so much in the first place, though she kept her habit of locking up her feelings and throwing away the key. Maybe that’s not quite true – though she insisted on a no-strings attached policy, she knew all along that with Logan, there are always strings. Logan’s smile, his wit, his kind-heartedness: Those are the ties that bind.

She’d missed him. She misses him now.

She thought that going to Lane’s would help her tune out the quiet buzz of “Logan Logan Logan” happening in her brain, but so far, all she’s done is stare intermittently at her phone and the Eggo waffles Lane’s sons are eating (she’s hungry all the time now, like _all_ the time). She’d pull an Eleven and steal a box of the things, but she needs to go to the market anyway, promised Lorelai she’d grab some spray cheese (an essential in the Gilmore household – or is it the Danes household now? She needs to ask her mom about whether she’s changing her name).

“Lane!” Rory waves her hands around and points to the door, mouthing a goodbye. Her fingers dart in and out of the cushions until she touches the cool metal of her phone. She thought about “accidentally” forgetting it, but having two backup phones would defeat the purpose. It’s not as if she hasn’t memorized Logan’s number anyway.

“One minute!” Lane mouths back. “Almost done!” As the song peters out, she leaps off of her stool and joins Rory on the couch, a stern look on her face.

“What?”

Lane’s eyebrows approach her hairline. “Have you called him yet?”

“Who?”

“Oh I don’t know, the guy whose contact you’ve been staring at for the past forty minutes? And don’t try to deny it – I know you too well for that.” Lane has never had time for coyness or subtlety, a quality amplified by motherhood. “The guy who,” she whispers, “ _impregnated_ you?”

“I don’t know if I’m ready.”

“Rory, I know this is scary,” Lane says. “Believe me, I know – remember when I thought there was some kind of flesh-eating parasite inside of me once I got back from Mexico?”

Rory nods.

“Yeah, well, once I found out I was pregnant, I yearned for a parasite.” Lane takes off her glasses and rubs her eyes. “Now, I wouldn’t trade motherhood for anything, Sure, there’s lots of sleep deprivation involved, but being a mom is pretty great, you know? And now that I’m driving into New York two days a week to help out with that indie label, I feel really fulfilled.”

“You’re a regular Kate Reddy.”

A scream comes from the table, where Steve is lifting the syrup over Kwan’s head.

“Steve, put down the syrup right now!”

“Relax, Mom! The cap is on, see?” He waves the bottle around in triumph, its red cap winking in the light like it’s in on the joke.

Lane rolls her eyes and turns back to Rory. “Okay, so it’s not always a walk in the park. This morning, I had to try on three sweaters before finding one without a stain.” She looks down at her emerald turtleneck and sighs. “Spoke too soon – this thing is nine years old, so I’m really hoping this is from chocolate.” She lifts the sweater and sniffs. “Yeah, I can’t tell. My point is, sometimes I think about packing a bag and moving to Siberia, but I promise that you will get the happiest memories of your life from this experience.”

“You’d look nice with a giant parka and a bottle of vodka in each glove,” says Rory. “I’d visit you.”

“I’ll add that to the pros list.” Lane gets up to stuff bagged lunches into her boys’ backpacks and shuffle the kids outside, where Zack is waiting to walk them to school. By the time she returns, Rory is staring at Logan’s contact again.

“Rory.”

She tears her eyes away from her phone – specifically, the monkey emoji – to look at Lane.

“Tell me the real reason you don’t want to call,” Lane says. “I thought you decided you wanted to give Logan a chance to be involved with the baby.”

“I did – I do.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“I don’t want to do this alone.” It’s the first time she’s said it out loud, though the fear has been translated into sweat-inducing nightmares and the rapid beating of her heart ever since she took a pregnancy test (then another, then a few more to be _really_ sure). “I know Logan will be here as much as he can, but I’m not crazy about the idea of him flying in from London every couple of weeks to spend time with the baby while I’m left to do the rest by myself. It’s not because I don’t think I _can_ do it alone; I just don’t want that. I want him here all the time.”

“You don’t think he’ll come to that decision on his own?”

“I don’t know.” Rory shakes her head, fiddling with a loose thread on the couch. “He has Odette and his job to consider.”

Lane purses her lips. “Hold on.” When she returns, she has a stack of Pop-tarts and a glass of milk. “I’ll talk while you eat.”

Blueberry Pop-tart crumbs march down the side of Rory’s lips. “Way ahead of you.”

Folding her hands in her lap, Lane sits up straight and looks eerily reminiscent of her mother. “We know Logan will want to be involved, so I see three ways this could go. One, he tells Odette, and they stay together, making Odette your kid’s stepmother. Logan would never marry anyone evil, so I don’t think she’ll be of the wicked variety. Two, he tells Odette, they breakup, and you and Logan work together as friends to raise the baby. Three, he tells Odette, they breakup, and you and Logan end up together.” Lane sweeps Rory’s additional Pop-tart crumbs into a napkin with her hand and tosses the bundle into the trash. “Personally, I don’t find any of those scenarios horrifying, and the last two are pretty great.”

“But—”

“You have to call sooner rather than later, and when you do, you can’t be scared to tell him what you want – that you think he should move back to the States and, I don’t know, maybe that you’re _in love with him_.”

Rory’s heart is pounding, and she shrugs off her cardigan in a futile effort to prevent underarm sweating. Once again, there’s no use denying the truth, not to Lane. “I can’t tell him that. I’ve been selfish for too long now, and Logan’s the last person I want to be selfish with.”

“But maybe it’s not selfish at all – maybe he’s been waiting for you to tell him you love him since Germany,” says Lane, snapping a piece off of Rory’s third Pop-tart. “Maybe there isn’t anything in the world he wants more than to fly to Connecticut and be with you, but you haven’t given him any indication that _you_ want that.”

“I’ll call him. I will.”

“Whom are you trying to convince here?”

“Lane, I promise I’m going to as soon as I – hey!” Something is pressed against her ear, and it’s ringing, and oh God, now she really might vomit because Lane is mouthing, “this is for your own good.”

“Ace? Hello? Rory?”

Rory’s throat drops somewhere around her stomach; she shuffles on the couch, and it shimmies down to her small intestine. “Logan,” she croaks. “Hi.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Yes, everything’s fine,” she says, “but I think we need to talk. We talked all the time, but we never really talked. Does that make any sense?”

“Yeah.” He sounds relieved. “It makes perfect sense. I actually have something I’d like to tell you, if it’s okay for me to go first.”

“Go ahead,” she manages to get out, tasting bile. She’s never been so terrified in her life. Has he finally set a wedding date? Is she going to be invited to the ceremony _and_ the reception or just the reception? What if she’s not invited at all, and would it be worse if she were? What’s the ex-lover protocol when it comes to gifts? Does a toaster adequately express “sorry I slept with your new husband while you were together, hope you like toast?”

Forget seashells and little waves curling around her feet; this is a tsunami of dread.

“I quit my job.”

She isn’t expecting that answer, not even a little bit, and it takes her a few seconds to stop thinking about toasters and other gift-appropriate kitchen appliances.

“You what?”

“Yeah, I told my dad that I was tired of London and working for the family business, that I’m going to strike out on my own. I already have a couple offers on the table.”

“Lo-Logan that’s great.” She’s stuttering now. Good.

“The old man took it pretty well,” Logan says. A horn honks in the background, and she hears him yell out an apology before continuing. “I expected him to try to make me an offer I couldn’t refuse, maybe even send me a chopped off horse’s head in response if I caught him on a bad day.”

“It’s not personal, Sonny; it’s strictly business,” Rory quips. Pop culture references are safe; maybe they can segue into _Goodfellas_ from here.

“Yeah, for once, I think it was. He said he understood my desire to get back out there on my own and see what I could achieve independently but that I’d always be welcome back at the Huntzberger mothership.”

“Wow, sounds like your dad’s really matured,” Rory says.

“Nah, he still thinks _South Park_ is the funniest thing on TV.”

“That makes me a sad panda.”

Logan laughs. “Never took you for a _South Park_ viewer.” Another horn honks, and she can tell Logan is breathing heavily.

“I am a very _infrequent_ viewer,” she says. “Only when there’s no good reality TV on. What are you doing, by the way? Running?”

“Yeah, triathlon. We start the biking portion soon, so I’ll have to hang up – never mastered the art of riding without holding the handlebars.”

Rory sees Lane smiling and knows she must be grinning like an idiot. “How embarrassing.”

“I know,” Logan says. “Never got the hang of pogo-sticking, either. We all have our shortcomings.”

“I think I can overcome my elementary school-level instinct to shame you,” says Rory. “You do know that the biking always happens _before_ the running portion of triathlons, though, right?”

“Damn, really?” He’s huffing now, swift breaths coming between each word. “Would you have believed me if I’d said marathon instead?”

“Not a chance, Huntzberger.”

“Rory.” His breathing is still ragged, but his tone has changed. “A couple days ago, I realized that my life hasn’t gone the way I intended, that most of my choices have entailed _not_ choosing. I’ve been passive about everything because it was simple.”

“Sounds like you had a real Damascus moment,” says Rory.

“Just call me Saint Paul.”

“And how do you feel now, O Great Apostle?”

“Now…” He pauses.

She’s too afraid to hope but too invested not to let in a little optimism, a crack of light in a dark doorway. Logan takes a breath, and she feels the urge to start stress-tap dancing in the middle of Lane’s living room.

“Now, I know I don’t want simple. I want you.”

She wants to scream and laugh and cry and scramble onto Lane’s roof so that she can shout about it. “You do?”

“Open the door.”

For a moment, she thinks he’s referring to her thought about the doorway and the streak of light. “Wait, you mean the actual door? To Lane’s house?”

“To Lane’s house.”

Rory looks at Lane, who’s smiling so hard, Rory worries her face will crack. Her oldest friend claps her hands. “Go on!” she says. “Open the door, shoo! You can tell me about it later.”

“You know something,” says Rory. Taking off the cardigan was useless; she’s sweating through her shirt. “You’re in on this.”

“For the love of God, Ace!” She nearly drops her phone when Logan’s voice comes through again.

“Okay, I’m opening! I’m opening!”

It’s exactly what she wanted to happen, exactly what she hoped for when her self-imposed cynicism fell away during late nights and early mornings – Logan in Stars Hollow. Jeans and a sweater, hair mussed by the wind, handsome, wonderful Logan.

“You’re here,” she whispers.

“I’m here. I’m sweaty and exhausted from literally running across town with these bags, but I’m here. And no longer engaged,” he adds. “Probably should’ve mentioned that already.”

She’s suddenly afraid to touch him, like he’ll deflate like a balloon or crumble to pieces on the front stoop.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d want a grand gesture and thought about just calling, but I think I’ve had enough subtly for a lifetime. How about you?”

“Yeah.” She swallows the lump in her throat and ignores the wetness on her cheeks. “Yeah, me too.”

“I love you, Rory Gilmore,” says Logan. “Always have, always will.” Everything is perfect: sun shining, birds singing, Logan declaring his love for her. “And I’d like to spend my ‘always’ _with_ you if that’s all right.”

“Logan, I–”

“No pressure,” Logan says, smiling, “but I’m really hoping you’re about to say you love me too because I drank three water bottles on the plane, and it’s going to be awkward to come inside to use the bathroom afterward if you decide to turn me down.” Rory laughs, partly because of Logan’s joke and partly because who would’ve thought an “I love you” would ever be the simpler option?

And she does. She loves him.

He needs to know everything first though, needs to know that the forever he’s offering is no longer just with her but with the child in her belly, the child the size of a peppercorn who’s working to build a proper, tiny brain and heart. Rory intends to fill the first with books and the latter with love, and she doesn’t know if she’s ever wanted anything more than for Logan to say he’ll do it with her, every minute of it.

“Logan.” Come what may, Rory knows she’ll never forget the look of anticipation on his face. Another tidal wave is about to crash, and both of them know it. “I’m pregnant.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Logan reacts to Rory's news. Kirk has a new assignment in Stars Hollow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good news: I managed to find some time to write, yay! Bad news: I didn't read this through, so quality is a giant question mark here. Think I should start stress tap dancing? Yeah, me too. Let me know if you love it, hate it, want it tattooed on your body, etc.
> 
> Song recs for the chapter: "Jacksonville" - Jinja Safari, "Cross My Mind" - ARIZONA, "Head Full of Doubt/Road Full of Promise" - The Avett Brothers (and that could be the title of my autobiography if I find a way to prevent the band from suing me)

“Pregnant?” Logan looks shocked, splashed with a bucket of ice water shocked, just saw the finale of _Lost_ shocked. There’s something under the surface though, a hint of a smile pulling at his lips, like there’s an invisible hand straining to lift up the corners of his mouth with a strand of floss. Surprise, uncertainty, and a tremor of pleasure – it’s better than she expected. It’s better than _she_ was after the six pregnancy tests.

“How are you not freaking out? I mean, I’m going to be a mom, and you’re going to be a dad, and okay, _I’m_ completely freaking out.”

He’s smiling in earnest now, his eyes crinkling in the way that makes Rory’s heart ache with happiness, and she laughs when he picks her up and gives her a little twirl. “You and me – we’re going to have a baby?”

“Hopefully not of the Rosemary variety.”

“Yeah me too, considering I’d be Satan in that scenario,” says Logan, tucking a piece of Rory’s hair behind her ears. His smile sinks into a sloppy, melted character-face-on-a-popsicle frown. “How many times has your mom tried to make that reference?”

“None!”

“Ace.”

“Okay, none plus three.” Rory tucks her hand under his jaw and runs her thumb over his chin. “She’s going to try harder to get to know you, though. She knows she didn’t make enough of an effort the first time around.”

“I think _everything_ will be better this time around, not just with your mom. We’re going to get it right, you and me,” Logan says, and somehow, she believes him. A jar of warm honey has been dumped into her chest, and it’s spreading all the way to the tips of her fingers and toes.

“Are you sure you’re not panicking?”

“I have no doubt that there’s an anxiety attack or two on the horizon, but for now, I think I’m okay.”

“Okay. Okay, that’s good.” She throws her arms around him and squeezes as hard as she can.

“Easy there, tiger.”

“Sorry, just wanted to make sure this isn’t all a dream and that you’re actually here, in front of me, not freaking out.” She extracts herself just enough to look up at him. “You’re still not freaking out, right?”

“How about we both get out our calendars and schedule some appropriate times for me to have those anxiety attacks? That way, we’ll avoid any public embarrassment in places like the diaper aisle at Target.” He kisses her forehead. “More importantly, you no longer need to ask when I’m going to start panicking.”

Rory’s heart speeds up as Logan backs her against the siding of the house, one hand on her waist and the other against the wall. “Sounds like a plan.”

“Good.” He places a lingering kiss on her neck, and her legs become about as stable as bendy straws.

“Hey, Logan?”

“Still more than fine, Ace, though now I can’t stop thinking about buying diapers.”

“No, it’s not that.” Kirk is standing on the street in front of Lane’s house, Petal on a leash beside him. Stars Hollow has never felt so suffocating.

“What is it, then?” Logan keeps kissing her neck, and she squirms to get away just as she hears an ear-piercing whistle being blown. Logan jumps and turns around, just in time to see Kirk march the rest of the way up to Lane’s front door, Petal on his heels.

“All right, I think I’ve seen more than enough!” A silver whistle swings from Kirk’s neck, glinting in the sunlight.

“Kirk, what are you doing?” she asks, knowing that whatever it is will be neither sensible nor productive. Kirk’s personality is like a kindergartener’s art project – flashy, original, and mostly confusing.

“Have you two ever heard of the term _P-D-A_?” he asks with no ascertainable trace of irony.

“Yes, we have, but—”

“Well, Taylor has decided that the citizens of Stars Hollow have been going a bit overboard with their public displays of affection, and frankly, it’s bad for Petal, too. I’ve been assigned to keep everyone in line.” Kirk puffs up his chest. “It’s a very dignified position.”

“Your fly’s down, man,” Logan says. Kirk looks down in horror and turns around to zip up his khakis. When he faces Rory and Logan again, his face is the color of a freshly picked strawberry.

“Thank you.”

“No problem.”

“Well, anyway,” Kirk continues, clearing his throat, “the campaign is called ‘Make PDA PG Again.’ Came up with it myself.”

“If the penalty is a huge wall between us and Kirk, I can’t say I’m opposed,” Logan mumbles into her ear, and she has to bite her lip to keep from laughing.

“Kirk, are you sure you want to model your slogan after Donald Trump’s?” Rory asks.

“You mean the angry guy from _The Apprentice_?” Kirk wipes his whistle off on his argyle sweater vest and checks his khakis again. “Well, there’s much work to be done, so I’m off, but whenever you try any of”– he flails his hand in the direction of Rory’s neck – “ _that_ , I want you to think of me. You never know when I could be watching.”

A couple walking down the street untangles their hands when they see Kirk approaching. He slows down to give them a lingering look, nods, and continues on his way. Petal attempts to stop to inspect a discarded, half-eaten bagel but is pulled along before she can get her mouth on it.

“How would you feel about not raising the baby in Stars Hollow?” Logan looks half-amused, half-appalled.

“I don’t think I’d be opposed to getting away from Kirk for a while,” says Rory. “He means well, but–”

“He lives in a bubble.”

“I fear things would only worsen if someone attempted to pop it.”

Logan nods, looking contemplative. “I think I’ve finally figured out Stars Hollow.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, rubbing his neck. “This place is a snow globe. You can shake it up all you want, and the tiny flakes, the little idiosyncrasies, will fall in different places, sure, but the town itself? It’s glued in place. It’ll never change.”

Rory’s never taken that view of Stars Hollow – most of her criticism has pointed to its smallness, not its invariability. Her thirst for change stemmed from dissatisfaction with failed or stagnant relationships in Stars Hollow but never the place itself, though in fairness, she’s romanticized the idiosyncrasies Logan mentioned. The festivals, the parades, the town hall meetings: All snowflakes, floating down to create a town-sized pair of white blinders that prevent residents from seeing anything outside of what’s right in front of them. She doesn’t know if she’s ready to take the blinders off, to get out on the road and see the whole world outside of her small town-perspective.

With Logan, a voice whispers, she could do it. She could try.

He could be her bridge to the real world, the one she lacked in New York. She never felt completely comfortable there, but Stars Hollow isn’t right anymore, either. She’s like one of Cinderella’s stepsisters trying to jam her ugly foot into a couple of glass slippers that just won’t fit.

“You’re right,” Rory says. “I never thought I’d want to leave this place, but I don’t think there’s any chance I’m going to be able to grow trapped a snow globe. I’ll just hit the glass ceiling – no pun intended.”

“You know I’ll never ask you to leave if that’s not what you want,” Logan says, his arms wrapping around her waist. He scans the neighborhood before kissing her. It’s a deep and warm and happy kiss, the kind of kiss that stuffs the whole sun in your belly and lets its rays soak through your bloodstream.

“I know. That’s one of the reasons why I love you so much.”

Logan smiles his wide, crinkly-eye smile again. “I just realized you never said it back.”

“As if you didn’t already know.”

“For a while there, I wasn’t sure,” he says, suddenly serious. “We should have been honest with each other from the beginning, and a lot of that’s on me – I never told you that Odette and I were in an open relationship the whole time you and I were together. She’s with her boyfriend in Paris now.”

Grief strikes her like a bolt of lightning. So many hours hating Odette, only a ghost, a shadow of a woman in her mind. So many hours to be mourned.

“You’re upset.”

“No, no, not with you,” Rory says. “I spent a lot of time and energy being angry about Odette’s existence. I’m sorry about that, and I should have been honest with you, too. I was never okay with the idea of you being promised to someone else.”

“From now on, full disclosure.” Logan holds out his hand, and Rory takes it.

“All right, then. You still have to go to the bathroom?”

Rory hears him shout yes as he sprints inside Lane’s house, grabbing his bags on the way. She’s still laughing when Lane joins her outside.

“You look happy.”

“Despite still having no job and no real direction, I am,” Rory says. She feels solid, like she’ll no longer blow away from the slightest breeze. “Thank you for helping make today happen. I know I once told Logan off for overusing the grand gestures, but this meant a lot to me.”

“Hey, you’re my best friend.” Lane knocks their shoulders together. “I’m not doing my job if I’m not looking out for your happiness.”

“I feel like I’ve been slacking on _my_ best friend duties,” says Rory. It’s another thing she has to feel guilty about, another thing to wash clean and begin anew. “I promised I would be the Lorelai Gilmore for your kids, really be there for them, and I’ve been more like Jude Law’s nanny – sleeping with an engaged guy and not very available or receptive.”

“You know, Sienna said she still cares for him deeply.”

“Does that mean you forgive me?”

“Of course,” says Lane, walking over to the mailbox, where it looks like two weeks’ worth of magazines, bills, and letters has been stuffed inside. “You may not be here all the time, but when you are, you make it count. Though if you could remind Steve that it’s his job to get the mail, that’d be great.”

“Noted.”

Logan emerges from the house in a different sweater and leather jacket. The look is very early 2000s but in a good way, and Rory’s cheeks are starting to hurt from all of the smiling she’s done today.

“Where next, Ace?”

“Al’s Pancake World?” She’s hungry. Again. She's not sure if it's because she's actually hungry or if the increase in appetite is some sort of pregnancy mind trick.

“Pancakes sound great, and before you say it, I know Al has much more to offer than breakfast food. You coming, Lane? You’ll throw suspicion off of us if Kirk’s around,” Logan adds, grinning.

“As much as I’d love to serve as your bodyguard, I think I’m going to stick around the house.” She looks down at her turtleneck. “I think my inability to find any clothing without stains is a sign I should do some hardcore laundry, maybe watch _Straight Outta Compton_ while I scrub and fold _._ ”

“You know that movie’s over a year old, right?” Rory asks.

“Yeah, but I’ve been straight outta free time,” Lane says, shuffling the mail around in her arms and pulling out a copy of _Rolling Stone_. “You guys go; I’ll be busy being a domestic goddess.”

“You’re an inspiration to us all,” Logan assures her. He grabs Rory’s hand, and they head out, Lane watching from the doorway like a proud mother sending her kids off to junior prom. A Kodak, corsage, and a dilapidated limo, and they’d be ready to dance the night away to TLC and the Spice Girls, Lane taking photos and video the whole time.

“You think I’ll be any good at this?” The transition from boutonnieres to babies gives Rory whiplash. She refocuses, knowing Logan needs affirmation.

“Of course you will.” The panic must be setting in now; the news has had time to settle and fester, to slowly pollute the air until it leaves Logan breathless. She should know; she still spends hours in the bathroom, short of breath and violently vomiting, and she’s not sure whether it’s morning sickness or projectile anxiety. “I know it’s terrifying, trust me.”

“I just…” He rakes through his hair with his free hand. “I don’t have an example to model myself on like you do. I had a rotating cast of nannies who hated me – would’ve been a prime candidate for one of those Nickelodeon shows where you never see the parents.”

“Hm, I think you’d fit better on the silver screen than the small one. A Ferris Bueller role, I could see.” He smiles, but it’s not as relaxed as earlier; there’s tension behind it, like he’s secretly grinding his teeth. “Logan, you have to trust me,” she says. “You may not have had your parents around, but look at who you’ve become in spite of that – you’re thoughtful and hard-working and fun and spontaneous, all things that this baby will love about you. And you can read people; you can read me. You’re perceptive and respectful of other people’s feelings, something your dad has never mastered.”

“You can say that again.” He kicks a pinecone along the sidewalk.

“You really don’t get it?” They slow to a stop in front of the gazebo, which is still decorated with the twinkly lights and flowers from the wedding. The flowers are wilting now, but they're still beautiful, almost more so – Rory likes it when her flowers look just a little bit decayed. As soon as they’re clipped from the stem, they begin to die, and with the hints of brown on their petals’ fringes, they get to show it – that they reached maturity, that they were chosen. She smiles when Logan slides out a peony and hands it to her.

“What don’t I get?”

“You being empathetic and compassionate and all of these qualities that your parents aren’t means that they were innate in you, that you’ve had them in you all along.” She wrinkles her nose. “God, I sound like Dr. Phil.”

He kisses her until she forgets where they are, forgets she’s standing on solid ground. “You really believe in me, don’t you?”

“I really do.”

“Okay,” Logan says. He nods once, seemingly to himself. “Pancakes, then?”

“That’s it? Just like that, you’re good?”

Logan shrugs. “You believe in me; that’s all I really need. Once we get closer, I might need a couple Xanax and a stretcher too, but that remains to be seen.”

She laughs. “Just keep me updated.” They start walking again, their steps in sync, and for the first time in a long time, Rory feels like she’s really going somewhere.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rory and Logan have dinner with Luke and Lorelai. Logan shares some surprising news, and Lorelai consumes a questionable amount of coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello....it's me. I'm getting this chapter out before I get busy again (though be afraid - be very afraid - of the nonexistent editing). I've realized that Lorelai is super fun to write - she's great at toeing the line between funny and annoying, which is what I think most of us try our best to achieve. I also feel like she'd be super into the meme craze (particularly the slutty penguin), so yeah. Relatable. Anyway, I think this MIGHT be my fave chapter yet, so hopefully, you will enjoy it!! If you don't, feel free to lie in order to preserve my fragile self-esteem (jk, don't do that. It'll add to my trust issues).
> 
> Song recs for this one: "Something" - The Beatles, "Sleeping on the Floor" - The Lumineers (which works perfectly for the second half), and because it will be funny in the context of the chapter, "Mayberry" - Rascal Flatts

Lorelai doesn’t look surprised to see him. He doesn’t think she’s angry, but she has a little twist of displeasure to her lips that tells him she was hoping for a few more days or weeks alone with Rory. She’s never liked sharing, Lorelai. He gets it. He doesn’t much like sharing, either.

“So, anyone want a burger?” Luke asks. It’s a clear cry for help, a request to escape to the kitchen, where he can avoid the painful silences and uncomfortable, unintentional staring contests.

“I’d love one, thanks,” Logan says, watching Luke’s face crumple in relief. Rory seconds his request.

“Great. Medium rare?”

“That’d be perfect,” he says. Rory nods her agreement.

Once Luke is gone, it feels like that first dinner at Rory’s grandparents’ house all over again, when he and the two Lorelais got left in the living room with too little alcohol and even fewer words. That night, they lasted all of two minutes before migrating to the dining room. With Luke in the kitchen, here there’s nowhere to go, and he feels the need to say something to diffuse the tension.

“I know if you had your way, it wouldn’t be me standing in your house right now.”

“Go on,” says Lorelai, raising an eyebrow and starting to pace. It’s a slow progression from one side of the couch to the other as if this is an interrogation room, and she’s here to get to the hard-hitting, ugly truth.

“It wouldn’t be me in your perfect world, and I understand that,” Logan says, not caring whether or not he rambles. Rambling means his words taking up more space and time until Luke finishes the burgers-come-olive-branches. “But it _is_ me, and that makes it _my_ perfect world because any world in which I get to end up with Rory is the best one.”

Lorelai hasn’t entirely defrosted, but he thinks he detects a slight thawing – the eyebrow is lower, and her lips aren’t as tight.

“You don’t think I deserve Rory, but let’s be honest, no one she chose would ever be able to clear that hurdle. I think I can be good for her, though, and I’ll give her and the baby everything I have – my heart, my trust, my energy, everything.”

“And what do you get out of this _titanic_ self-sacrifice, Jack?” Lorelai asks. “If you say painting Rory like one of your French girls, I swear I’ll find a way to throw you off a ship myself.”

Logan almost smiles – _You jump, I jump, Jack_ – and he knows Rory catches it too because she squeezes his hand.

“I get to feel alive,” he answers, and Lorelai’s eyes widen. “I get to see the world in color instead of in grey. I get to wake up with a smile on my face every single morning because I know Rory will be the first person I see.” He gazes over to the framed photos of Rory sitting on the mantle and for the first time pictures what a baby boy or girl, half her and half him, will look like. The nerves have set in, and the self-doubt is hanging behind him like a shadow, but he sees a baby with Rory’s bright blue eyes in his mind and pushes his worries away for now. “People can live a hundred years without really living for a minute,” Logan says, echoing the day he and Rory leapt off a giant platform with nothing more than umbrellas. “Every minute I spend with your daughter is one less minute I haven't lived.”

“Come on, Mom, you can’t say I’m going to find anyone able to beat that speech,” Rory says, her eyes red and wet. “Love you,” she whispers, a private wisp of her voice curling into his ear.

“You talk a good talk, Huntzberger.” Lorelai stops pacing and takes one of the chairs. “And I believe you love Rory. Love just isn’t always enough.”

“Mom, remember when we talked about not projecting your issues onto me?”

Lorelai swats a hand toward her daughter. “Oh please, Gilmores are like Lifetime movies – if there’s no drama in the relationship, there’s no relationship.”

The three of them are mute for what feels like minutes, though it can’t be more than thirty seconds. Logan is not inclined to break the silence again; he took his turn.

“So,” says Rory finally, crossing her legs on the couch. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, Mom – are you keeping the last name Gilmore?”

“Of course I am. Why? Are you thinking of dropping it?” Lorelai looks at Logan in accusation.

“We haven’t talked about anything like that, but I—”

“Actually,” Logan interrupts, placing a hand on Rory’s knee. “I _have_ been thinking of asking Rory about that, and I think I have a solution that will work for everyone.”

“You do?” The two women ask simultaneously, Rory with an expression of surprise, Lorelai of skepticism.

“Rory will change her name to Princess Consuela Banana Hammock, and you know what that means you’ll get to call _me_ , right?” he asks, addressing the elder Gilmore.

For the first time all night, she breaks out in a huge grin. “Crap Bag.”

“Exactly – and now you’ll get to say it to my face.” Logan knows the joke is risky, but it pays off. Lorelai bursts out laughing, and he sees the tension in Rory’s shoulders deflate.

“Well played,” Lorelai says, studying him. “Very well played.”

The rest of the night progresses relatively smoothly, and Luke invites him to stay over (he declines; when he called Lane about the grand gesture, she insisted he stay at her place and hang out with the boys, which he now realizes is for the purpose of getting him used to children). It’s not until they’re drinking coffee after dinner (sans Rory, who’s visibly envious) that Lorelai brings up one of the topics he’s been most worried about since Rory told him about the pregnancy, a topic that’s contributed to a near-constant, dull throb at the front of his brain.

“So where are you going to live?” she asks. “Rory’s got boxes up and down the East Coast, so your options are far and wide. Maybe you could be nomads, _Away We Go_ the whole thing, though obviously I won’t be moving to Antwerp because there are too many people on bicycles in Europe, and it gives me the creeps. I keep thinking about the Wicked Witch of the West, and it’s even worse when they have one of those little baskets on the front.”

“We haven’t decided on—”

“Oh!” Lorelai claps her hands together. “You should get a dog, a Toto-sized dog! Where’s Paul Anka?” She snaps her fingers, and the large, hairy dog appears, looking expectant. Lorelai tosses him a leftover chunk of cooked hamburger meat and pats his head affectionately. “You should stick with the crooner theme, name your dog Frank Sinatra, and every time he’s bad, say, _‘Shame, Sinatra_!’”

Logan feels like his head is spinning. The coffee clearly has set in for Lorelai, and while Luke looks resigned to wait the caffeine out in silence, Logan’s not sure if he’s expected to participate. Normally, he can play verbal Ping-Pong with the best of them, but Lorelai is speaking so quickly that not even Rory can volley back.

“You never answered my question. Where are you going to live?”

“Well,” Logan says, unsure of how much he’ll get to say before Lorelai begins another tangent. He’s unsure about how she’ll react, not to mention Rory, but knows the more he tries to tiptoe around the truth, the louder the inexorable creak on the floor will be. “Like Rory said, we haven’t decided on anything, but I have a couple job offers I need to think about – with Rory’s input, of course.”

“In New York?” Lorelai asks. Follow-up questions, he should have seen these coming. Lorelai’s topic train is about to run him over like the proverbial tied-up victim in a spaghetti Western.

“Not in New York,” he says. “One’s in Boston, a newspaper that needs some revitalizing and wants to bring me on as editor.” It’s a good job, but newspapers are a dying medium, and this one won’t last long; he’d be a Band-Aid for a wound that needs stitches.

“Well, Boston’s not far, and hey, maybe you’ll befriend Tom and Gisele and have play dates where your kids do yoga together,” Lorelai says, getting up to refill her coffee mug. Luke opens his mouth then closes it.

Rory nods, also hearing this information for the first time. “Boston is nice. I could get used to Boston.”

“Where’s the job you really want?” It’s the first time Luke has spoken, and he’s managed to cut away all of the filler conversation with only six words. This is the real question, the one Logan didn’t want Lorelai to ask, but he didn’t consider Luke’s perceptiveness. One drop of water hidden in a desert, and Luke could find it. “It’s far, isn’t it?” Luke scratches his beard. “California or Europe?”

“Berlin,” Logan says.

Lorelai’s mug clatters in the sink. “Berlin? As in Irving? Merkel? Jam-filled, sugared-up pastry?”

“The last one’s technically a Berliner, but yes to the first two.”

“My God, I’ve shamed doughnut connoisseurs everywhere.”

“Rory?” Logan turns to look at her. He probably should have told her about the job offers alone, but Luke and Lorelai are family now, and when they asked, he couldn’t lie. “What do you think?”

“Did you mean it earlier?” she asks. “When you said you wouldn’t ask me to leave Stars Hollow if I didn’t want to, did you mean it?”

“Of course I meant it.” Stars Hollow isn’t his first choice of places to live and raise the baby, and she knows that, but if this is what she wants, he’s willing to defer to her. He’ll live in a snow globe if it means being glued next to Rory Gilmore. “I can figure something out,” he says. “I’ll commute to New York like Lane or find a job that lets me work from home if you’ve changed your mind and this is where you want to be.”

“What do you mean _if_ this is where she wants to be?” Lorelai narrows her eyes at Logan then turns to Rory, seemingly uncertain about which of the pair is slighting her beloved town. She settles on Rory, perhaps because she thinks an appeal to stay in Stars Hollow will be more effective on an actual resident. Logan’s not so sure. He’s not crazy about the place, but he appreciates its quirks, and it hasn’t trapped him, not the way it has Rory. He suspects he could live here ten years and still feel like an interloper, but for Rory, this place is both a kingdom and a prison; she’s a queen presiding over a manic prison yard.

“Your whole life is here, kid,” says Lorelai, enclosing her daughter’s hands in her own. “Your family and friends are here. We’re like Mayberry, only with a less handsome sheriff.”

“Mom—”

“And if you leave, you’ll start singing that song, how does it go? I miss Mayberry, sittin’ on the porch drinkin’…drinkin’…”

“Ice cold cherry coke,” Luke supplies. He looks embarrassed and coughs into his mug, which Logan hopes for his sake holds something stronger than coffee. Logan himself is drinking water in a show of solidarity with Rory, though he’s been regretting that decision since Lorelai suggested he and Rory get a dog named Frank Sinatra.

“Cherry coke, yes!” Lorelai says, grabbing her own mug from where she dropped it in the sink and filling it. “You know, we need a Stars Hollow theme song, except Taylor _cannot_ be in charge after the whole musical disaster. That show was worse than _Spiderman_ , which had stunt people literally falling from the ceiling.”

“Mom—”

“Rory.” She takes out another mug and fills it halfway then slides it to the younger Gilmore. “Here. Drink. Half a mug won’t hurt the baby, and being the only one actively consuming the nectar of the gods displeases me.”

“No, I told you – I have to quit cold turkey, or I won’t be able to hold back.” Rory rubs her temples, leaving sections of hair sticking up around her ears. Logan can tell that her mother is stressing her out – maybe it was a bad idea talking about the jobs, after all. He should have waited, told her somewhere she could complete the patented Rory decision-making process in peace – panic, make a pro-con list, and ultimately wing it. Maybe she needs a tap dancing session. He remembers when she started the unorthodox method of stress reduction; she begged him to join her, said it’d be good for him. He made it through three jazz squares before deciding he’d rather put on a straight jacket than put on the Ritz.

“Hey, Ace, you don’t have to decide anything right now,” he tells her, placing a hand over hers. “I have a week to give an answer.”

Rory shakes her head. “I don’t need a week.” She looks at him, her expression determined. “I love you for saying that you’d stay here if that’s what I wanted, but it’s not. I want to go.”

“To Berlin. You want to go to Berlin.” Lorelai fills in the unspoken words and sinks into her chair. She picks up Rory’s untouched cup of coffee and rubs the mug with her hands without drinking from it, as if it’s an extension of herself that needs physical comforting. “I didn’t want to let you get a word in earlier because that’s what I was afraid you would say, and when it came down to it, I said it for you anyway.” Lorelai wipes away a tear crawling down her cheek. “I know it’s selfish to ask you to stay, but I will anyway. I’ll miss you too much, and I want to be around when that baby is born.”

“Mom, I’ll miss you too,” Rory says. “You know I will. I just…I need this. I’m ready to close my eyes and jump and build myself up from wherever I land.”

Lorelai is crying in earnest now. “I’ll be old fashioned and write to you every day for the whole first year, 365 letters.”

“If you’re a bird, I’m a bird.”

The two strike an intimate tableau – mother and daughter, a kitchen scene. Logan feels as if he’s intruding despite being a central subject in the discussion and wonders if Luke’s experiencing the same sensation. The women’s bond is almost tangible; it feels concrete, solid, like it’s filling the room and pushing out the rest of the world. Maybe that’s not right – maybe their bond is pulling everything else _in,_ pulling in him and Luke and Lane and Taylor and Kirk and everyone else in Stars Hollow who’s so madly in love with them and the connection they’ve crafted.

Beautiful chaos – that’s what it means to love a Gilmore. He’s watching stars collapsing in on themselves in this very room, the construction of a black hole with an insatiable, overpowering gravity that drags in all of the light around it. And it’s easy. It’s easy to let go and give them all of your light, entirely useless to fight the impulse to give over everything you have, because their chaos really is so damn beautiful. This – _this_ – Logan knows he and Luke have in common.

“We’ll have an open door policy,” says Logan quietly. “You can visit as much as you want, and if you’d like the baby born here, we can make that work. We’ll come for Christmas or summer or whenever is best for everyone.”

“And at least one festival,” Lorelai adds.

“If you’d like.”

“You’ll have to come to Nantucket for Christmas; my mother is hosting.”

“That sounds lovely.”

“Okay.” Lorelai surveys the room, seemingly to make sure everyone else is satisfied with the terms of this agreement. “Okay, Rory?”

“Absolutely.”

“Luke?”

“I’ve never dreamed of visiting Europe,” he says, smiling, “but I s’pose it’s going on the list now.”

Lorelai faces Logan last. “What about your parents?”

He’s been expecting this question. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. My family’s pretty flexible, and we don’t have anything like what you and Rory have.”

He’s not sure he and his family are in the same galaxy, let alone the same orbit.

“Okay, then.” Lorelai’s eyes are still teary, but she smiles and squeezes Rory’s arm. “I guess this is happening. I’m going to miss you, kid.”

“I’ll spend so much time with you before we go that you’ll get sick of me and push me onto the plane yourself,” Rory says.

“Not a chance. I’ll be the one getting it delayed for missing the left phalange.”

“I’m more concerned that I’ll have a flight attendant named Stove.”

“Or a colonial woman churning butter on the wing.”

“Hey, as long as I get some of that butter for my stale, airline-supplied dinner roll.”

Logan sits back, knowing he could keep up but content to listen to the banter. They say a supermassive black hole can hold the mass of a million suns. What, then, is an ocean away?


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Logan chats with an unexpected guest in Berlin. Rory eats a party-size bag of pretzels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaaaaand I'm back with a ***VERY IMPORTANT CONTENT QUESTION***
> 
> What are your thoughts on drama? To clarify, do you want more of it? None of it? Relationship drama but very little external/environmental drama, or the opposite? To further clarify, there are a lot of ideas rolling around in my head right now, so I'd love some input on where you'd like to see this thing go! Hope you like this chapter, as it features one of my favorite GG characters of all time (possibly my favorite, full stop).
> 
> Song recs: "Cry Baby" - Fickle Friends, "Coming Back" - Scenic Route to Alaska

The first thing his mother asks is, “When are you getting married?” (He doesn’t know).

The next thing his mother asks is, “Has Rory started showing?” (Not yet).

The last thing his mother asks, before he cuts off the questioning, is, “Do you think she could pull off a princess-style Vera Wang?” (Lorelai or Rory would be far better suited to make dress decisions).

Logan is not surprised. The cancer made her weak, but it didn’t make her fragile. Shira Huntzberger, blonde-bobbed, skirt-suited, diamond-sporting Shira, remains as chilly and shallow as ever. He wishes he could say that they bonded during her sickness, that she learned to prioritize people over pearls and good deeds over ones that pertain to real estate. She didn’t.

His father is another story. He’s concerned about Logan and Rory’s marital status too, doesn’t want a Huntzberger born out of wedlock, but he looks almost proud. Logan isn’t sure if he’s giving Mitchum too much credit or if he really is pleased by his son’s happiness, but either way, it makes the short trip away from Rory, the one he insisted on taking alone, (almost) worth it.

She’s waiting for him when he gets home to their three-story, brick townhouse in Berlin – it’s a little older and shabbier than he would have liked, but Rory craved charm and character, something that felt like a home rather than a science lab or new construction project. It’s grown on him over the past couple of weeks; she’s done a good job with decorating – fresh paint, fresh flowers, fresh stains on the wood floors. He’s not sure how she’s had the patience to deal with marble patterns and backsplashes between preparing for the baby and a stream of freelance writing gigs, which have been so time-consuming that the book is now on the backburner, but he’s grateful.

She never heard back from Condé Nast, but she called, emailed, and sent letters until they agreed to hear her new pitch, an idea with real inspiration and substance behind it. The resultant _Vanity Fair_ piece – about the irony of Nazi Germany’s former stronghold becoming a beacon of traditionally western values and her experience as an expat – attracted widespread attention and led to an article in _The Atlantic._ The calls haven’t stopped coming since. Sometimes, he looks at her picking at her keyboard with a burrito or piece of pizza or pair of chopsticks in her free hand, and his chest gets tight because he doesn’t think he’s ever been so proud of anyone.

“Ace, where are you?”

“Kitchen! We have a visitor.”

It’s not who he expected to see, not even close. She’s wearing a navy pantsuit and a look of distaste, like she’s just sucked a couple of lemons. 

“Oh, goody, the sperm donor is back.”

“Good to see you too, Paris. It’s been a long time.”

“We could enter into the next ice age, and it wouldn’t be long enough, Huntzberger, but unfortunately, we need to chat.”

“I’m just going to…” Rory’s voice trails off as she retreats to their bedroom, a party-sized bag of pretzels in her arms.

“I told her I wanted to speak to you one-on-one.” Paris stabs a spoon into her nearly overflowing bowl of cereal. “By the way, I used the last of your milk.”

“Okay.” The word comes out sounding like a question.

Paris frowns as she chews. “You’ve forgotten? Unbelievable.”

“I’m sure you’ll tell me whatever it is I need to remember,” he says, unsure why Paris is here and why she’s treating him like he contracted the Zika virus, ran over a couple of cats in his car, and unilaterally made the decision to kill off Han Solo in _The Force Awakens_. Paris always thought Rory could do better than him, but so did Lorelai, and they’re getting along fairly well now. Sometimes she calls just to talk to Logan, and they can go a full hour without questioning the other’s morals or decision-making.

“My milk, my two percent milk – you polished it off one morning, and I couldn’t have my cereal. I did terribly on a pop quiz because of you.” The spoon is dangerously close to his nose, and with every syllable, it creeps closer. Paris is wielding the piece of silver like a weapon. “I got an A minus.”

She says “minus” like Logan would say “herpes.”

He does remember about the milk now. It was after the first time he quit working with his father – he crashed at Rory and Paris’s apartment briefly. “Didn’t I replace the carton?”

“Yes! Exactly!” The spoon lands with a splash, and droplets of milk scurry down the side of the bowl. “When you and the milk parted ways, you left it alone and empty in the recycling, frankly as a tragic shell of what it used to be. Then you callously replaced it with a newer model just like that, as if the first carton meant nothing to you. AND,” she says, taking out her buzzing phone to hit the ignore button, “ultimately you decided, hey, my old carton was actually pretty nice; I think I’ll see if I left any drops at the bottom I can exploit.”

“I see.” He pulls out the stool next to Paris and sits down. “We’re not talking about milk.”

“Of course we’re not, you moron.”

Logan sighs, taking off his jacket and laying it on the island’s ivory, marble countertop. “I’m assuming this conversation will take a while, so would you mind if I change my clothes before we continue?”

“Oh, not at all,” Paris says. She opens a Solitaire app and begins swiping cards. “By all means, go slip into something more comfortable, like a silk robe – or a coma.”

“Come on, Paris, I know you’ve never been a fan of mine, but this is ridiculous.” He grabs the box of cereal and pours himself a handful. It’s too sugary for his taste, but he didn’t have time to get dinner at the airport and would rather not be on the receiving end of Paris’s third degree on an empty stomach. Knowing her, there’s a good chance he’ll be eating his words as some point, but that will be far from satiating.

For the time being, she’s ignoring him; there’s a “Congratulations” banner flying on her phone screen, and the playing cards are bursting into fireworks. She hits the new game option. He’s not sure why she’s spending her time on a virtual card game whose title literally implies loneliness and solitude, considering she came here unannounced and uninvited, supposedly to talk to him.

“The expert level on this thing is pitiful. I’m of the opinion that these games get made for inbreds who want to feel smart.”

“You know, as much as fun as this visit has been–”

“All right,” she says, throwing her phone into the pocket of her briefcase. “I’m listening.”

“Great.” Logan takes a deep breath, wanting to get it all out at once. “You love Rory and want to look out for her. I get it, but I think if you slow down for a second, you’ll realize that we’re on the same team. We both want Rory to be happy.”

Paris rolls her eyes. “We’re about as close to being on the same team as Tomi Lahren and Jon Stewart.”

“Paris—” He cuts off when he realizes that he’s been approaching this from the wrong angle, being Scorcese when he needs to go Sorkin. Rory was right. He _can_ read people, and Paris, as much as she may like to be, is no mystery. She’s not angry. She’s afraid, though of what he isn’t sure.

“Yes? Have you suddenly lost your ability to speak?”

“It makes you uncomfortable that I’m not intimidated by you,” says Logan, “but discomfort isn’t what I’m picking up right now, and while you were frustrated by the way I handled things with Rory, I think you’ve moved past that.”

Paris gets up from her perch on the stool and moves to the leather couch. “What? If you’re going to act like a psychotherapist, I may as well commit to my role.” She stretches out across the cushions and puts her feet up, letting her heels drop to the floor.

“So what is it that’s worrying you?” He joins her on the other side of the room, taking a seat in the recliner. “And why is it that you need to talk to me instead of Rory?”

“The truth?”

“Honesty is the idea here, yeah.”

Paris grabs a throw pillow and presses it against her abdomen. “As much as it pains me to admit this, I need a man’s perspective. I’ve realized that I don’t want a divorce, but I don’t know how to tell Doyle or what he’ll say. I couldn’t ask you anything over the phone because I don’t trust you enough and needed to process your facial reactions.” She lifts the pillow and hits herself in the forehead repeatedly. “God, I know I’m a powerful, successful alpha female and that I should feel content doing the gladiator in a suit, Sheryl Sandberg _Lean In_ thing, but sometimes, you just need to 'lean' into some dick, you know?”

“Um—”

“Okay, you caught me; I’m deflecting with humor. Truthfully, sex was never a problem in my marriage, and it’s not just about needing to feel fulfilled in that way,” says Paris, “though I _am_ getting flustered just thinking about it.” She grabs the remote sitting on the glass coffee table and turns on the television, flicking through channels until she gets to a pop music station. The pillow hits the floor, the sound scarcely louder than a puff of air, and Paris appears to be conducting breathing exercises: In through the nose, out through the mouth. “K-Pop soothes me.”

Logan supposes it’s better than tap dancing.

“Paris, have you asked Doyle how he feels about the divorce? How do you know he doesn’t have the same regrets and reservations as you?”

“Oh come on, Logan, since when have I been one to have open conversations about feelings? Doyle might think I’m having some sort of Bridget Jones level emotional breakdown – and by that I mean the original, not the God-awful sequel or that heinous baby plot.”

Logan gets up from his chair and joins her on the couch, lifting her skinny ankles so that he can sit down. “As I’m sure you’re well aware, Rory has rejected me many times over the years–”

“It’s too bad you’re so persistent.”

“Okay, I’m letting that one slide.” He thinks about muting the television, but if Paris is serious about the K-Pop being a source of comfort, it’s probably best that it stay on. Maybe it reinforces her armor – Paris likes to believe that she’s made of steel – but while being cold and analytical feels safer, it’s not healthy. It’s like eating a kale salad for every meal; the dissatisfaction and depravation will build until eventually, you find yourself sobbing at the Taco Bell drive through, ordering the entire menu. That much processed cheese and questionable meat product can’t be good for anyone. “Do you think maybe your avoidance of talking about feelings is part of the problem? Paris, you need to be honest – tell Doyle why you think the marriage is breaking down, what could be done to fix it, and that you love him and think it’s worth a shot.”

“You may be on to something." She avoids looking at him when she admits this, and she makes the lemon-sucking face again. "You really believe that will work?”

“I can’t promise you anything,” Logan says, “but it’s your best shot. I’m partial to grand gestures myself, the whole ‘too big to fail’ mindset, but all I can guarantee there is an excellent HBO adaptation and no jail time.”

Paris is quiet for a full minute, but Logan doesn’t prompt her to speak. His brain runs on high speed, but he has nothing on Paris. It’s like comparing a golf cart to a fighter jet. He’s sure she’s in the midst of considering every possible outcome, along with their legal, emotional, and financial implications. Chances are, he’d crash into a sand trap just trying to keep up.

“You’re not the milk man.” It’s the quietest her voice has ever been, at least in Logan’s experience. “The metaphor is for Doyle; I projected it onto you because I’ve had a crick in my neck for six weeks and needed to release some tension.” She picks the pillow up off the floor and cradles it to her chest. “I think he has a girlfriend – he never answers the calls I make between midnight and 3 A.M. anymore; he used to _always_ answer those calls. They’re my prime hours of productivity, and he knows that.”

“Maybe he doesn’t feel obligated to answer them anymore.”

“Look, I’m not…I’m not like you or Rory,” says Paris, looking incredibly uncomfortable. “I don’t look like I was made in a petri dish, and I’m not warm and fuzzy, or charming, or lovable. Being a spouse and a mother hasn't come naturally to me, but Doyle makes me want to try, to really, truly try. Before I met him, I thought I’d be calculating when to adopt cats to ensure I don’t die alone and that said cats would have eaten off my ears and toes by the time a maid found me three days post-mortem.”

Paris has never been so forthcoming, and he wishes she hadn’t waited a decade to confide in him. This Paris – the real Paris – still isn’t warm or charming, but she is lovable. She also has more in common with him than she probably realizes – absentee parents, a life of privilege, and two inheritances, one relatively healthy (ambition and cold, hard cash), the other less so (arrogance, entitlement, disdain for the working class and intellectually-challenged). He and Paris aren’t robots, but they both received the software that would have made them so, the programming meant to replicate their parents. The wiring on the hard drive: Classism, selfishness, and perpetual disappointment in one’s offspring.

Being in London meant allowing Mitchum and Shira to reboot the system, to try again to design Logan the way they’d intended. If not for Rory, maybe he would have let them finish the process.

He wonders if Doyle has done the same for Paris, has kept her at her most human, her most vulnerable. Logan understands her fear better now; it’s a fear that eats away at everything you like about yourself, that corrodes your self-confidence like acid. If you need another person to feel complete, you’re worthless and pathetic, but without that person, you’re worthless, too (and lonely and depressed and aimless and miserable).

Whether Paris will write off an attempt at sincerity as mawkishness is unclear, but the time for mock-therapy and petty jabs has passed.

“I hate feeling lost,” she says. “I’ve always been the one who knows exactly where I’m going. What am I supposed to do?”

He wishes he could give her a precise answer, draw her a map with every turn she should take, and mark the end goal with an X, the place where the light at the end of the tunnel exists, where you get to just stand still and bask in it. The truth is, they’re all a little lost, all straying from the right path now and again – Paris, Rory, him, everyone in their generation. Whether it’s discontent with sitting at a desk, frustration with a dating field full of apps and sites that feel like job applications, or fear of a world that considers empathy overrated and calls political correctness a puerile pursuit, none of them have an exact answer, a panacea to the general sense of unease that hangs overhead like a storm cloud.

“Well,” Logan says, “for starters, you can take a page out of my book and be annoyingly persistent in your romantic pursuits. I’d also suggest building up self-esteem, though that’s easier said than done.”

“It doesn't make sense – I constantly find other people sub-standard in terms of intelligence and ability, yet I have the self-assuredness of Khloe Kardashian when she was known as the fat sister." Paris sighs. "I suppose I’ll make like a Maybelline ad and tell myself I’m worth it.”

“You are – you know that, right?” Logan asks. “You’ve put up with me because of Rory, but I’d like to think that we can have a substantial friendship, too, and that you’ll trust me when I say that Doyle worshipped the ground you walked on at Yale. Love like that doesn’t just disappear.”

Paris sighs again, huffier this time. “Then where is it hiding?”

“My guess is on your fifth floor, which everyone avoids due to your staircases being more treacherous than the ones that swing between walls in _Harry Potter_.”

His companion cracks a smile, and the cloud cover lifts, if only a little. “Rory told you about the staircases, huh? We need to get out of that place.”

“You really do.”

He turns when he hears a door swing open and hit the adjacent wall. Rory emerges with an empty pretzel bag. “Hi – is everything okay? I hadn’t heard yelling or acerbic tones in a while, and I figured I needed come out to make sure you two hadn’t covered the floor in blood and carnage.”

“Would you have pushed my brains back in, Jackie-style, if necessary?” Logan asks.

“Well, just now, I was more concerned about our newly stained floor.”

“I love it when you sweet talk me.”

Paris interrupts with a groan. “I think that’s my cue to exit before I vomit all over your _newly stained floor_.”

“You aren’t staying over?” Rory asks.

“I got a hotel room,” Paris says, “with a spa. This was already a frivolous trip, so naturally, I decided to treat myself further.” She approaches the front door and pauses. “Thanks, Logan, for the advice. Really, I mean it. I guess you’ve contributed more to this world than a couple of swimmers inside Rory’s ovaries.”

“Thank you?”

“You’re quite welcome. I think you might end up a pretty good dad.” Paris turns abruptly and exits, her briefcase and suitcase over the same arm. The door closes with a bang.

“You made Paris feel better.” Rory curls up next to him on the couch.

“It wasn’t anything, I just–”

“You made Paris feel better.” She kisses his cheek. “She was a mess earlier; I couldn’t get through to her at all. Thank you.”

“You know, it’s crazy, but I think I kind of like Paris,” says Logan, “even though I’m pretty sure she just stole one of our pillows.”

“She’s a total Shrek, and I mean that in the most loving way possible.”

“Lots of layers, harsh exterior but a big softie when it comes to romance?”

“Exactly. Smells much better, though – no detectable swamp, sweat, or onion scent.” Rory wraps her arms around his waist and tucks her head under his chin. “I think this may be the start of a beautiful friendship for you two.”

“I guess both of us will always have Paris.”

Rory laughs. “Guess so. Now let’s go to bed, and you can tell me all about seeing your parents in the morning. And why there's K-Pop playing on our TV.”

It takes less than five minutes for Rory to fall asleep, clutching a blanket to her chin and sprawled out over three-quarters of the mattress. Despite his misgivings about his parents’ suggestion of marriage, Logan can’t help but think that he’d quite like being married to the woman sleeping next to him. He doesn’t know if he’ll mention it to Rory tomorrow, but he has a business trip to New York next week and decides he’ll make two stops – first, Stars Hollow to ask Lorelai (again) for Rory’s hand, and second, if that goes well, to a little shop in the city where he can buy something sparkly to go in a robin’s egg blue box.

He has to believe that in every possible map of his life, all roads lead to Rory Gilmore.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone receives a proposal. It snows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas/happy holidays, everyone!!!! Hope you have a happy and heartwarming evening and spend it with people you love! If you get a chance to drop a comment, it'd be an extra gift for me - this chapter is mine to all of you :) Enjoy!!! Xo
> 
> To listen: "All You Need Is Love" - The Beatles, "The Way You Look Tonight" - Frank Sinatra

Rory doesn’t cook anymore. She never _really_ cooked, but she tried a couple of recipes when she and Logan first moved to Berlin, determined that she would master one of the central elements of domestication for the baby’s sake. Logan insisted he was happy to handle meals, but Rory is nothing if not stubborn, and after streaming a marathon of _Barefoot Contessa_ online, she convinced herself that she could manage. She didn’t sever any fingers, but she didn’t quite manage, either. Her most disastrous attempt: Julia Child’s Quiche Lorraine. After Logan put out the fire by throwing a baking sheet over her pan of burning bacon bits, all Rory could say was, “Julia called quiche foolproof.”

It felt like having her guts spun around in a mixing bowl. Foolproof. Right. She could almost hear Gordon Ramsey calling her an idiot. Logan cheered her up, promising they’d take a cooking class together, but since then, she’s stuck to HGTV whenever she feels a craving for comfort television. She acquired the master microwaver gene; cooking is simply not in her repertoire.  

It makes sense, then, that while Logan is out for a weekend lunch with a coworker, she finds the box – the unmistakably _Tiffany_ _blue_ box – buried in pots of various sizes like a tiny, Russian nesting doll. All she expected was a teapot that isn’t there. She can’t help it. She screams.

“Oh my God, Rory, what is it? A spider, a cockroach, the ghost of a Nazi? If it’s a Nazi, give him a good punch in the nose! Wait, that won’t work on a ghost…ooh, get the salt! Make a salt circle around yourself!”

“Mom, how many cups have you had today?”

“Just two, I swear!” Lorelai’s voice is clear through the phone, and Rory can’t detect any trace of dishonesty.

“Just excited about the possibility of the undead invading my home?”

“Well, it would mean you’d have to come back to Stars Hollow – you can’t live somewhere haunted, just look at Jack Torrance!”

“I’ll let you know if I start feeling tempted to pound Logan with a roquet mallet,” Rory says.

“Croquet mallet? I thought it was an axe.”

“That’s the movie. In the book, it’s roquet – with an r.” Even in the midst of explaining the differences between versions of _The Shining_ to her mother, Rory’s heart is hammering, and her breathing is uneven. She has Lorelai on speakerphone so she can cradle the box in both hands like a communion wafer that’s been blessed by the Pope himself.

“So if you’re not being possessed by a haunted residence, what made you scream?”

“I found a box – a box from Tiffany’s – and Logan mentioned something about his parents suggesting marriage, and I think he’s going to propose.” It all comes out in one breath.

“How do you know it’s not a pair of earrings? Or, like, a going steady pin?” Her mother’s tone is completely different, almost frantic.

“Sure, Sandra Dee. You know, I was only suspicious before, but you’ve pretty much confirmed it.” The box suddenly feels heavier in her hands. Though tempted to reveal its contents, she’s done nothing more than trace the opening’s groove with her thumb, stroking it like it holds a divine relic.

“WHAT? HOW?” Lorelai is so loud that Rory thinks she might burst the iPhone’s speakers.

“Because I know how you are when you’re trying to hide something,” says Rory, her voice deliberately soft in an effort to get Lorelai to go down a few decibels.

“LOGAN IS GOING TO _KILL_ ME!”

“When did this get decided?” Rory’s heart is beating even faster, and she has to sit down at the island, crossing her legs on one of the stools. “When did you two talk about this?”

“Well, I guess I may as well tell you now,” Lorelai says, her tone less frantic but still breathless. “He came by Stars Hollow during his business trip to New York and asked me what I thought about a proposal. He was really worried about you thinking it was all because of what his parents said about the baby being born out of wedlock, but I told him that it’d be worse _not_ to do it because of his parents if it’s something that will make you both happy.”

Rory sets the box down on the countertop and lowers her head to rest on her arms so that she’s staring directly into the blue. “I know what Logan’s relationship with his parents is like; I’d never think that.”

“I know, kid, but to be fair, you’ve rejected a proposal from him before. Can’t blame him for focusing on what could go wrong.”

“I guess not. It’s weird that you’re pro-Logan now – no backhanded compliments about the windblown hair or the turtlenecks or anything.” Rory gets up from the stool to make the cup of tea she wanted. The teapot is nowhere in sight, so she’ll have to settle on heating up a mug of water in the microwave. She needs something soothing, though, something to calm her down. Giddiness and terror are playing tug of war in her mind, the excitement and love straining against the fear. What if they screw this up, and why do a couple of rings and a piece of paper make the consequences of their possible failure feel so much heavier?

“Yeah, well, speaking from firsthand experience, I know commitment is scary,” says Lorelai, “but he’s madly in love with you, so I’m trying to help him out a little. Also, I’ll have you know I asked him if he was going for a Ron Burgundy look with his turtleneck the other day.”

“Okay good, someone needs to keep the sweater choices in check,” says Rory. She’s tried to act nonchalant about Lorelai and Logan’s budding friendship – and still is – but she’s thrilled. Lorelai and Logan getting along means more than amity between the two most important people in her life; their bond represents the melding of Rory’s most divisive values, that the country mouse and city mouse sides of her can reside in harmony. It also gives her hope that her mother will find a way to work things out with her grandmother, who reacted surprisingly well to the news of the pregnancy when Rory and Logan visited Nantucket. A wistful look came over Emily, and she gazed at a photo of Richard on the mantle before saying that years ago, they’d hoped for a baby with Logan’s blonde hair and Rory’s blue eyes, giddy at the prospect. Rory cried; Logan supplied tissues and a comforting hand on her back. Emily pulled Rory aside the first night, her fingernails digging into Rory’s arm, to ask about a wedding – it isn’t only Logan’s parents who expect marriage. Unlike Lorelai, however, Emily guessed the real reason behind Rory’s hesitation. Lorelai believes it’s the finality of the institution, the willingness to aim for a moving target, to bind yourself to a transient person (and the person you marry _is_ transient, just as every person is because they all change every day and week and year), but that’s not it at all.

“I don’t think Logan is afraid of commitment anymore, and neither am I.” Not to Logan, at least. Maybe it would be different with someone else, but Rory is looking forward to Logan changing because when he changes, he _grows_. Besides, she’s been in love with him for years, and even before Hamburg, he was always a torch that she carried with her, a flame flickering in the cobwebbed back of her mind – not quite a what if because they’d given their relationship a real shot, but an almost. They were almost happy, almost right. Sometimes she thinks she should have said yes to him when he proposed at her graduation; other times she thinks it would have been a disaster, that she would have resented him for the ultimatum and subsequent constraints on her autonomy. There’s no way of knowing. All she knows now is that she doesn’t want to mess it up again; they’ve gotten it wrong so many times already. Emily knew the source of Rory’s uncertainty intuitively, could tell that Rory doesn’t fear being bound to Logan; she fears that the binds will come loose by negligence or worse. She tells as much to Lorelai.

“So marriage feels like, ‘get it right, or else?’”

“Exactly.” The microwave beeps, and Rory pulls out her mug, sticking in a bag of decaffeinated black tea. She tried drinking decaf coffee, but it simply wasn’t the same.

“Well,” says Lorelai, “first of all, there’s no real way to measure a marriage’s success, and even ones that don’t work out aren't necessarily failures if they’ve brought some happy years or happy kids. Second – and this isn’t a particularly uplifting question – would you feel any less heartache and disappointment if you two _weren’t_ married and split up?”

The answer is immediate and honest. “No, of course not. I’d be devastated.”

“And is marrying Logan something you’ve pictured?”

“I don’t have a Pinterest board or anything, but yeah. Yeah, I’ve pictured it.” The times she’s imagined walking down the aisle, a bouquet in her hands and a veil hanging down her back, it’s Logan who’s been waiting for her, Logan sporting a tux and a huge grin.

“Well, there you go.”

“For someone who waited nine years to get married, you make it sound so simple,” says Rory, taking a sip of tea.

“I thought you didn’t want me projecting my issues on to you anymore,” says Lorelai. “This advice is independent of my relationship, catered especially for you.”

“Well thank you.” The tea is already getting cold; she didn’t heat it long enough. It’s not satisfying anyway – simultaneously too bland and too bitter (and it’s not coffee). The liquid swirls down the drain, a tiny, brown whirlpool in a metal sea. “Hey, Mom, I think I know what I’m going to do; I’ll call you later, okay?”

“With good news, I hope!” A TV blares to life on Lorelai’s end; a girl screams something about an “effing hideous cocktail dress shaped like a loofa.” The sound fades out, and her mother sighs. “God, that was loud. I might be going deaf.”

“So last week, when you kept saying ‘what’ in response to my new story ideas, it was deafness rather than boredom causing the problem?”

“Uh-huh, sure,” says Lorelai, “or I was catching up on last season of _The Bachelor_ , which is what I’m doing now before I have to head to the construction site. This new inn is really cramping my reality TV style.”

Rory rolls her eyes. “Well, I’ll email the story ideas next time and buy you a little more Chris Harrison time. Enjoy your catfights and crazy.”

“Oh, I will. Call me as soon as you can!”

“Will do. Love you, Mom.”

“Love you too, Rory.”

Rory snatches her weekend to-do list from the counter and places it back on the fridge. Everything will have to wait. She has some phone calls to make.

…

The Tiergarten covers almost two square miles in West Berlin. Rory instructs him to meet her by their favorite pond, where they often go to feed the ducks or read books side by side. Today, it looks like someone’s spread a thick layer of white buttercream over the park, leaving uneven, subtle peaks and valleys. The snow is soft enough that it feels like powder, and Logan can step rather than stomp his way to the brunette in a royal blue coat he knows is waiting for him. She’s transferring her weight continuously from her heels to her toes – he can’t see her feet, but he can tell by the way her torso is shifting. She’s nervous. No book, no loaf of bread, only an anxious smile.

“Please don’t tell me you’re smiling like that because you texted the wrong person to meet you here.” Logan inspects his outfit, noting the black turtleneck under his blazer and Chesterfield. “Or is it because you can tell I’m wearing a turtleneck under this coat? Rest assured your mom covered the Ron Burgundy jokes the last time I saw her, but I’m sure you’ve got something else.”

Her smile relaxes and widens. “Sure I do, Cousin Eddie. Still holding out for a managerial position?”

“Well, the past seven years out of work have been hard, but I think I deserve it.”

“And the turtlenecks keep you looking professional.”

“You never know when an opportunity will strike.”

Rory tugs at his coat collar and kisses him. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

She takes a step back and faces the pond, where a lone duck floats across the water. “I know Cousin Eddie really wore a dickie, but I went with _Lampoon_ since it’s almost Christmas.”

“Is it really? I hadn’t noticed – your mom’s only left me about fourteen messages to complain about the boxes I’m shipping to her house.”

A brown ponytail whips through the air as Rory turns back to look at him. “You said you wouldn’t go overboard!”

“I didn’t!” He did…but it could have been worse. He finally stopped ordering from Amazon after his bank called to make sure someone hadn’t stolen his credit card. The outlandish charges were getting suspicious. “Things might have gotten a little out of hand, but I had to buy presents for a lot more people this year – your mom and Luke, Emily, April and Jess because I know we’ll see them in Stars Hollow, and I even got something for Berta and everyone in her family.”

“Logan–”

“Please don’t fight me on this – I like it. I like having people.” He doesn’t know how he ever kept the truth from Rory; now, it tumbles out like coins from a slot machine on an endless winning streak. “I know they’re not technically my family, but–”

“But what if they could be?” The nervous smile is back, but Rory’s cheeks are pink, and her eyes are bright. She slides off her gloves and stuffs them in her coat. Warm hands frame his face; fingers burrow in his hair. “What if I told you I have no interest in fighting you on the presents because it means the world to me that you consider them family? What if I told you I want us to be family for real?”

“You mean–”

“I mean that I love you, and I want to marry you, and I want to know if you’d like to marry me.” Rory holds up a hand. “Before you say anything, you have to let me get through my spiel. I gave it to the duck a couple times, and he seemed to like it.”

Logan gazes at the bird, still alone in the pond, where its vermillion beak dips in and out of sight, creating ripples in the water. The duck – tail feathers swishing – appears unperturbed by Rory and Logan’s presence, and there’s no one else to bother it. Logan imagines that shouting _yes_ to Rory’s proposal until his throat is raw, until his windpipes can’t blow and his vocal cords feel like cooked spaghetti pierced with a fork, would disturb the peace, but he’s close to ignoring Rory’s (and the duck’s) interests and doing it anyway. He thought he wanted to be the one to ask, but this is so much better. This is what it’s supposed to be. Logan turns back to Rory, makes a zipping motion over his lips, and feigns throwing away a key.

“I’m skeptical of the whole soulmate thing.” The gloves are back on, and the blue coat gets dusted for snow. A clump falls off the left shoulder, a pinch off the right elbow. Rory keeps her eyes on him, but the nervous tics are making a strong showing. “I don’t think you buy into it, either, but I know you like romantic gestures, and this is me making one for _you_ for once. Logan Huntzberger, you’ve been my relationship guidepost for a decade now, and no one has ever been able to measure up, not even close.” The coat abandoned, Rory takes his hands in hers. “We’ve made each other cry, but we make each other laugh harder and more often. We sometimes disagree, but we know _how_ to disagree, and we don’t take cheap shots. We’re good to each other and for each other. Through the good and the bad, I want you next to me.”

Logan opens his mouth to speak, unable to keep quiet any longer, but he closes it when he hears a large group of people approaching and a familiar chorus building little by little. The group, its members wearing band uniforms, carries brass instruments and drums.

“They’re playing The Beatles.”

Rory smiles. “Your favorite band. I don’t know if ‘love is all you need,’ but we’ve got a lot more than that anyway.” She pulls him into the circle of musicians, laughing. “I called my German tutor – who also happens to be a band teacher – and asked if she could get the group together on short notice. She came through.”

Another group emerges from behind the trees – young dancers in costume, all dressed in feathers or velvet or sequins that reflect the weak winter sun and the snow on the ground. They’re incredibly impressive for their age and remind Logan of the children enrolled at Miss Patty’s in Stars Hollow, and Logan spies an older woman with glasses and a pile of bright red curls looking on in pride. Some of the kids have scarves, which swing through the air like blue comets, and others dance in pairs and trios, pirouetting and spinning through the snow. A sprinkle of flakes floats to the ground; the sky has faded from dusty blue to grey.

“And them?” He nods toward the dancers.

“Miss Patty has international dance connections – it's like the mob but with tutus and feather boas.”

“Rory, this is amazing. Thank you.” Logan pulls her in by her waist and kisses her hard enough to elicit a few smattered giggles from the dancers. When he opens his eyes, one of the boys is sticking out his tongue.

“I guess I have two questions for you,” says Rory. “First, despite my utter lack of skill, will you dance with me?”

“Hey, I can’t fault you for dropping out of dance classes – you never bloomed into a tulip in your recital. An event like that would scar anyone.” In way of answer, Logan twirls and dips her. “Besides, I have enough skill from cotillion for both of us.”

“Glad to hear you say that.”

The duck, which Logan suspects has finally had enough, quacks and waddles away, its wings flapping. One of the girls chases after it, a tutu sliding down to her ankles, and the red-haired woman after _her_. The band plays on, and Logan and Rory continue dancing. He can’t stop smiling. They’ll do the white dress, the big party, the whole thing, and while it will be a fun-filled, incredible day, it won’t be the best day. He knows his most treasured times with Rory will come later and at moments when he won’t realize they’re happening. One will be when Rory’s exhausted by the baby and he holds them both until they fall asleep, or one could happen if Logan has a terrible day, and they watch classic comedies until he forgets. Little moments and small comforts – those will make up the best days. The good and the bad, like Rory said – she will always be the good within the bad.

“I guess all of this put together is my second question,” says Rory, “but I’ll say it again anyway – Logan, will you marry me?”

It’s the easiest question he’s ever answered. “There’s nothing I’d love more than being married to you.”

“Good – because I already told Finn, Colin, and Robert to start planning the bachelor party.” The band transitions into “The Way You Look Tonight” – Logan knows it’s one of Emily’s favorites and wonders if Rory called her for her opinion. The kids break into twos, the duos’ dancing much better than his and Rory’s. The girl who wandered after the duck is back and dancing with her instructor. Her tutu is now on her head, the turquoise tufts of tulle sticking out like a misshapen halo.

“Are you aiming for a situation like _The Hangover_ with that bachelor party?” Logan asks Rory. “Because I’m afraid it’s a somewhat likely possibility.”

“Just don’t be the Ed Helms character, please. No missing teeth or face tattoos.”

“Stealing a tiger okay, though?”

“Why do you think we stole the yacht? Purely training, young Padawan.”

Logan laughs. “You know, I’ve never been this happy in my life.”

Rory’s smile is beautiful enough to start wars or stop them. “Neither have I,” she says. “I have to admit, now, that I found the ring. I didn’t open it, but my mom accidentally confirmed my suspicions – or I guess my  _hopes_ would be a more accurate phrase.”

“I’ll put it on you when we get home, make it official.”

“So what do we use to seal the deal here?”

“A kiss will have to do, I think,” says Logan.

“Works for me.”

Though he doesn’t know what the ambrosia of the Greek gods supposedly tasted like, Logan imagines it was something like Rory’s lips: Strawberries and a hint of chocolate. He tries to infuse everything he’s feeling into the kiss – gratitude, excitement, and soul crushing, overwhelming joy – and when he breaks it, he knows Rory understands.

“I think this is shaping up to be a pretty good December,” he tells her.

“I agree,” she says, snowflakes coating her eyelashes. “Merry Christmas, you filthy animal.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wedding day approaches. Shira Huntzberger has a gift (and a secret) for Rory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone! Sorry for the delay, and I hope you're enjoying the new year!! My resolution was to eat better......guys, it's not going great. I told myself putting a handful of spinach leaves on my meatball sub made it healthy. Maybe 2018????
> 
> Song recs: "Dancing on Glass" - St. Lucia, "Money" - Rukhsana Merrise, "Ya Hey" - Vampire Weekend

Much to the delight of Emily, Rory and Logan decide to have the wedding in Nantucket. A wedding in the middle of winter is far from ideal, but Rory is beginning to show, a waning gibbous of a curve, and she wants to get married before it looks like she stuffed a full on moon under her sweater. Though most people in Stars Hollow know about her pregnancy – Lorelai hasn’t been subtle with her baby-related purchases and revealed they were for Rory after speculation ran wild that Lorelai and Luke were expecting – Rory's not sure she’s ready for  _everyone_  to know.

Once Rory returned from Christmas in Nantucket, the residents of Stars Hollow insisted on coming by to offer their baby and engagement-related congratulations. Sookie baked cookies, cakes, and pies, insisting that Rory needed the extra sugar for what would no doubt be the sweetest baby in the world; Logan indulged in all three and declared Sookie his favorite person alive (this was after a few bottles of champagne had gone around). Sookie blushed furiously and offered to bake their wedding cake, much to Logan’s delight. Jess bought them a beautiful, leather bound photo album, and he and Logan kept the bickering contained to sports (football, Rory thinks, but she acted like the television had a restraining order against her any time she heard the word "touchdown"). Even Michel seemed somewhat cheery at the prospect of a new baby; his husband recently applied for adoption, and Rory’s baby would be good practice. He also proposed that Rory name the baby after him, secondary suggestions being Folger, Maxwell, and Diedrich (Lorelai rolled her eyes; he should be grateful, she said, for all that coffee has done for the Gilmores, as it’s benefitted him indirectly).

April, on the other hand, seemed terrified by the prospect of becoming a step-aunt and immediately raced to the bathroom to dry heave. She claimed it was bad shellfish, but Rory knew better – she, too, felt incredibly nervous. It was easier when the baby was theoretical, when her stomach didn’t protrude, when she didn’t have a photo of her ultrasound taped to the fridge. Baby books and anecdotal blog posts revealed how much could go  _wrong_  with the little boy or girl in her belly, the nectarine-sized human with fingernails and toes and vocal cords. Comforting her stepsister helped her feel a bit better, but the reality of someone calling her “mom” made her want to join April over the toilet. Things with Logan are wonderful – perfect, really – but her fears of the future haven’t dissipated, merely shifted from a romantic relationship to a maternal one. Her anxiety is a bacteria that keeps getting stronger; it’s grown past the medicine of junk food and back rubs, even Logan’s carefully crafted words of comfort. There’s a near-constant ache in her chest, a quiver in her heart, and sometimes, she finds herself wanting to rip the ultrasound off the fridge and shove it into a shoebox in the darkest corner of her closet.

By the time the wedding weekend approaches – they’ve only had about eight weeks to plan, but Lorelai and Emily have been working nonstop, and Logan’s sister pitched in, too – Rory is exhausted. Dispirited. Drained. Wishing away the time is a ridiculous notion, she knows, and the wedding is sure to be equal parts beautiful and hysterical, but she’s just  _so_ tired. Unfortunately, her brain doesn’t seem to agree with her body – on the plane to Boston, she tries to sleep but is kept up by thoughts of preeclampsia and placenta previa and preemies, synapses firing nonstop. When she and Logan land, Rory wants nothing more than a quick flight to Nantucket and Tylenol PM-induced sleep.

Fate has other plans.

“Cancelled?” Logan rubs his eyes as if the message will change if he clears his vision. He hands over the phone so Rory can read the text from the airline, stating that inclement weather is preventing takeoff. “This is…inconvenient.”

Rory slumps in the bench at McDonald’s. “I’m going to need more fries.”

“We could take a car and then the ferry,” Logan suggests. “It’ll be three and a half hours, I think, but that’s not too bad…okay, you’re looking at me like I have two heads.”

“I don’t know if it’s because that plan sounds awful or because I’m so tired that my vision is getting blurry.”

“You  _are_ looking a little cross-eyed.”

Rory slaps his shoulder. “Watch it, Huntzberger. I could pull a Julia Roberts on you.”

“You mean dress up in thigh highs and a mini skirt?” Logan steals one of her fries. “Sounds like a honeymoon in the making.”

“I meant more along the lines of hitching a ride on a FedEx truck and ditching the wedding,” says Rory, “and you’re not helping anything by taking my greasy, salt-covered sustenance.”

Logan spends the next twenty minutes ordering more food, hiring a car to drive them to the Nantucket ferry, and finding out where the airline is keeping their luggage. When Logan and Rory slide into the limo (the only thing available, Logan says), it takes them a full ten seconds to realize they’re not alone.

“Hope you don’t mind that I called your favorite car company and told them to offer only limos to Logan Huntzberger.” Finn wiggles his eyebrows. “I also advised them to charge you double because you’re likely to spill scotch on the seats.”

“But I don’t have any sco–”

Finn holds up a vintage bottle in triumph. “1958. She’s a beauty, eh?”

“Set me back five grand,” says Colin. “Worth it.”

Robert pulls four glasses out of a cabinet in the limo. “Sorry to leave you out, Rory, but seeing as you’re expecting…”

“And we’re nothing if not responsible,” Finn adds, adjusting his aviators.

Rory laughs. “In that case, you may want to lose the shades. I’d say wearing them when it’s completely dark out is a slight indicator of irresponsibility.”

“Not to mention, it's tacky,” says Logan. “Between those and the khaki suit, you look like Pitbull.”

Finn pops his collar. “I know it’s very Miami, but I thought it appropriate for the Hamptons. Mr. Worldwide!”

“We’re going to Nantucket,” Logan says.

“Alas, you’ll simply have to drink until it looks good.”

Rory smiles as everyone exchanges handshakes and hugs.

“Good to have you here, boys.” Logan’s grinning, but Rory detects an undercurrent of trepidation – the bachelor party hasn’t happened yet, and she knows he’s anticipating something wild. He was certain the Life and Death Brigade would crash his most recent business trip to London, but all stayed quiet. It’s been funny to watch his paranoia grow – he expects Finn, Colin, and Robert to appear in every shadowy corner, behind every door, under every table. Throughout the car ride, however, neither Logan nor his groomsmen make any mention of a bachelor party. The inevitable plot hangs in the air, unspoken, heavy, and electric, mingling with the scent of the scotch.

They reach the ferry with little incident and no spilled scotch (a miracle, really), and when they walk into her grandmother’s house, dinner plates await them, the beef, rolls, and vegetables still steaming. Shira and Mitchum are already at the table, their posture proud but their expressions uncomfortable, and Emily is pursing her lips so hard, it looks like she has nothing more than a straight streak of ink brushed across her face. Under her breath, Rory tells her grandmother to be nice, but Emily mutters nothing more than a terse, noncommittal, “we’ll see.” Comforting.

Finn dominates most of the conversation, discussing his most recent trip to Las Vegas, during which he won nearly forty grand gambling and then spent every penny his last day there. “What’s gambled in Vegas should stay in Vegas, I think. Too bad I couldn’t say that the time I  _lost_ forty grand.” Emily flits between amusement and horror but tells the boys they bring back good memories of Richard and his fraternity brothers at Yale.

After dinner, Finn, Colin, and Robert head to their hotel, and Shira asks Rory to accompany her to the guesthouse. Emily protests the latter, wanting to spend more time with her granddaughter, but relents when Shira says she needs to talk to her "future daughter-in-law" privately, and Emily "may join in twenty minutes or so." The formality gives Rory frostbite. She wiggles her fingers to make sure they aren't going numb. Shira's condescending, too, which Rory suspects springs from a place of insecurity. If gold digging were an art form, Emily once told Rory and Lorelai, then Shira Huntzberger would be van Gogh ("That was way harsh, Tai," responded Lorelai. Rory agreed, though it gave her a bit of satisfaction to know that in truth, Shira was more nada than Prada).

Despite Emily's gossip, Rory still feels intimidated by Logan's mother. Rory and Mitchum have spoken close to a dozen times since she and Logan reconnected in Hamburg, but she and Shira haven’t crossed paths once. Though it was once Mitchum who made Rory’s knees quake, they’ve come to understand one another better, and she knows he respects her. With Shira, she’s not so sure; she can’t read anything in her icy eyes or waxy skin. As she follows Shira to the guesthouse, where the Huntzberger couple is staying (as well as Honor, her husband, and their daughter, once they arrive), she focuses on the back of her the older woman's blonde head and tries not to throw up. Once inside, Shira heads to the master bedroom and begins rifling through her luggage.

“Your grandmother told me you bought a wedding dress off the rack.” Shira tosses aside a Louis Vuitton duffle bag.

“I did. Is that a problem?” Rory feels instantly defensive of her plain, long-sleeved dress, which has a bump-shielding empire waist. She never had the magic, “yes to the dress” moment, but she thinks it’s because she shopped alone. The dress will serve its purpose, and she can improve it with the veil Lorelai has sewn and the diamond earrings her grandmother is passing down.

“Of course not,” says Shira, pulling out a large box, “but I thought you might prefer this one.” She rips off the tape, unzips a bag, and pulls out the most beautiful dress Rory has ever seen. Its sleeves are delicate and nearly transparent, the white patches of lace floating like flowers through a winding river. The floral lace builds into a garden as it reaches the bodice, and the tulle and lace of the skirt flares in a perfect mix of whimsy and elegance. Rory can hardly believe it – the dress is so incredibly  _her._

“I hope I didn’t overstep, but it fit with the little I know of you.” Shira crosses her arms over her chest. “It’s Oscar de la Renta – I had them adjust the waist just in case and make the skirt flow out a bit higher. If you don’t like it–”

“I love it,” says Rory. She brushes her fingers over the lace, almost afraid that she’ll unravel the thread just by touching it. “It’s stunning, really, and exactly my style.”

Shira’s face remains unreadable, but she uncrosses her arms. “Oh, good. Good. I almost went with a Vivienne Westwood, but I watched the entire  _Sex and the City_ series and the first movie during my illness, so I’m a bit prejudiced against her dresses. Superstitious, you know.”

“I’m glad you didn’t watch the second movie; it’ll prejudice you against Dior.”

“The scene with Aiden, you mean? Unfortunately, I  _did_ see it; I simply don’t speak of it.” Shira picks up the dress and presses it against Rory. “You should try this on.”

“Right now?”

“Of course right now.” Shira shoos her to the en suite and tells her to let Rory know when she needs to be buttoned up in the back. When Rory emerges a few minutes later, Shira gasps. “Oh. You’re a vision.”

After Shira finishes the buttons, Rory stands in front of the full-length mirror in the corner of the bedroom and is crying before she realizes what’s happening. She’s always been a bit cynical about wedding dresses, has found them extravagant and overpriced, an impractical expense for something that will be worn only once. This dress, though…this dress is pure magic, the kind of thing a fairy godmother would dream up. She can almost feel the buzz of a magic wand, a whisper of "bibbidi boppidi boo."

“Thank you,” she says to Shira, who hands her a handkerchief (she doesn’t have the mental capacity to wonder why Shira carries around embroidered handkerchiefs). "But this is too much, really."

“Don't be ridiculous. It’s the least I could do.” Shira sits down on the bed. “Perhaps buying your affection isn’t the best apology, but it’s all I know how to do.”

“You could try talking to me,” says Rory, impressed by the dress but hardly placated or convinced by the surface-level apology, “and you could have gotten to know me better ten years ago before deciding I wasn't good enough for a Huntzberger.”

“I think your grandmother reprimanded me enough for that already.”

“Maybe she did.” Rory pauses, inspecting the ends of her sleeves. “I'd rather you speak to me, though. I can handle myself. Actually, it's the way you treat Logan that I worry about more than anything.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“He craves Mitchum’s approval, but he craves  _your_ appreciation and affection,” says Rory. “I know having cancer was hard on you, but it was hard on him, too, and you didn’t make it any easier." _Illness_ , Shira called it. Perhaps Rory should have echoed the euphemism, dressed the wolf up in sheep's clothing, but she's already howling. "He’s treated you as a master and as a patient, but now, he just wants you to be a mom. _His_ mom.” She clamps a hand over her mouth, surprised at everything she admitted, but she can’t bring herself to regret the words.

“He said all of that?”

“He didn’t have to.”

Shira picks at her pinky, and a plastic, light pink nail pops off. The blonde rifles through one of her suitcases until she finds a makeup bag, from which she pulls a tiny bottle of glue. She sets to work replacing the acrylic nail, and her lips hardly move when she makes her next admission. “I never wanted to be a mother, you know.”

Something twists in Rory's gut. “What?”

“I hated the idea of it, of all of it…getting fat, having a tiny, screaming, helpless person to take care of, losing my freedom.” Finished with her pinky nail, Shira ticks off her grievances on her fingers. “I found out it was a girl and tried to tell myself it would be easier, but when a baby is crying at 3 AM, and your husband can’t help because he has a meeting at 7, it doesn’t matter if it's  _human_ , let alone whether it's a boy or girl.”

Rory stays quiet, sure the older woman is going to continue.

“Logan was better, cried a little less and slept a little more, but I still never felt maternal. I didn’t bond with either of my children. They didn’t feel like they were even mine. I felt…inconvenienced more than anything.” Shira’s voice is somewhat monotone, and her expression remains stoic, but for the first time, she seems open. “Mitchum was the one who wanted kids, but he didn’t have the time or will to make an effort in raising them, either. As parents, we simply…floundered.”

Rory doesn’t know how to comfort the woman in front of her – though she’s not dreading the arrival of her own baby, she has plenty of worries. Still, in a perverse way, Rory is finding comfort in Shira’s misery. Schadenfreude is hardly the best thing she’s picked up in Germany, but c'est la vie (and now she’s mixing nationalities). 

“I never should have been a mother,” says Shira. “I’m not cut out for it. I’m thrilled Honor and Logan turned out as well as they did – Logan especially, though if you mention that to Honor, I’ll deny it.”

“My lips are sealed.” Rory wonders if Logan has ever received this much insight into his mother and instantly doubts it. She almost pities the woman and would if she didn’t know how poorly and apathetically she’s treated Logan in the past. “You should confide in Logan, though," Rory adds. "I think it would help him a lot.”

“Maybe you’re right.” The light from Shira’s eyes fades away like a sunset; Rory can pinpoint the moment the sun dips below the horizon, and her eyes transition from a warm hazel to a cold green. Her lips stretch to a taut line, and she appraises the dress again. “The de la Renta really does suit you.”

“I’ll say.” Emily enters the room, her eyes red and watery. “Oh, Rory, you’re the most gorgeous bride I’ve ever seen.”

“Um, thanks, Mom.” Lorelai walks in behind her. “You remember me getting married a few months ago, right?”

Emily raises a single, dark eyebrow. “Yes, I remember.”

Lorelai rolls her eyes and gives Rory a careful hug, which is more skin-on-air than anything as Lorelai leans away to avoid the dress. “I guess I can’t argue with her on this one.” She brushes Rory’s cheek, smiling through tears. Rory passes Lorelai the handkerchief she used earlier. “Looks like I got here at the perfect time. You’re so beautiful,” her mother tells her.

“Thanks, Mom.”

“The dress is gorgeous, Shira," says Emily. “When you asked about what Rory was planning to wear, I had no idea…”

“I’m pleased you like it.”

The bedroom feels a bit cramped with Lorelai, Emily, and Shira all inside (the egos alone are clogging the room), so Rory encourages everyone to move into the living room, where Emily has Berta bring coffee, tea, and dessert. While Emily and Shira get settled, Lorelai helps Rory change out of the wedding dress. It’s like shedding a second skin; the lace and tulle feel like they belong to Rory, like an extension of her body's being peeled away with every button Lorelai unfastens.

“Logan is going to lose his mind when he sees you in this.”

“You think so?” Rory steps out of the skirt and throws her sweater over her head, and her mother hands her the worn out pair of jeans she wore to the airport.

“Kid, it’ll be a miracle if he doesn’t leave a pile of drool at the altar.” Lorelai sits down on the bed, crossing her legs. “He’ll lose most of the function in his prefrontal cortex, go complete canine. We’re gonna have to yell ‘Who’s a good boy? Who’s a good boy?’ just to get him back up the aisle.”

“Maybe Luke could start dribbling a basketball at the back of the church; he’ll run right to him.”

“ _Air Bud_. Nice. You know, I could see Logan as a Golden Retriever.”

"He's an Australian Shepherd, actually."

"According to you or Buzzfeed?" asks Lorelai, inspecting Shira's large pile of suitcases, duffles, and garment bags.

"Me, thank you very much." Much to Logan's horror, Buzzfeed told him he was a poodle, so of course, Rory had to come up with an alternate answer. After twenty minutes she yelled, "Australian Shepherd," causing Logan to spill his fruit smoothie (totally a poodle thing to drink, though Rory didn't say anything). Still, he was pleased with what she came up with. "Smart, hardworking, friendly, hates being alone, becomes bored and destructive if he has too much free time."

"Impressive."

Rory gives the dress one last longing look before returning it to its garment bag and box. “Until next time, my friend.”

“You’re talking to inanimate objects now?”

“Only those designed by Oscar de la Renta.”

“Oh my God, you’re wearing an  _Oscar de la Renta_.”

Lorelai links her arm with Rory’s, preparing to walk into the living area, but Rory cuts her off at the doorway.

“I'm dreading it, too, but we have to enter the war zone eventually," says Lorelai. "Or is it that I have chicken nugget bits in my teeth? Luke and I got food on the way.”

“No, your teeth are chicken-free,” says Rory, her heart filling with a surge of love for her mother, who's been supportive and loving and dedicated. “I just wanted to say thank you for being my mom. You’re a really good one.”

“Well, it hasn’t always been easy being such a brilliant, hilarious,  _and_ gorgeous role model…okay, I’m combatting further tears with humor.” Lorelai ruffles Rory’s hair. “I think my so-called ‘waterproof’ mascara has been tested enough today.”

"Fair enough," says Rory. "I guess I'm ready to go in now."

"I only wish TMZ were with us to capture the inevitable smack down."

It only takes two minutes after she and Lorelai walk in for Shira and Emily to start butting heads, this time over whether the baby will be sent to boarding school. Lorelai suggests they send the kid to Hogwarts. Only Rory laughs. The two eldest women knock down topics like dominos, quickly and destructively, each conducting a rampage more than an open discourse. By the time the conversation slows to a crawl, Rory's arm is sore from all the times Lorelai has squeezed it in an effort not to laugh.

“One more thing about the baby before we call it a night,” says Shira, pulling a lavender cashmere wrap tighter around her shoulders. “I refuse to be called grandma. I’m too young for that title.”

“Might not be if it weren’t for the second facelift,” Emily says into her demitasse.

“The baby can call me Shira–”

“Oh now, that’s just absurd.” The coffee cup clinks against its saucer. “You don’t have to be ‘grandma,’ but you could pick something else, perhaps ‘Floozy’ or ‘Trollop.’”

Lorelai chokes on a shortbread cookie while Rory nudges her grandmother’s arm.

“I’m sorry; that was uncalled for,” says Emily. “Despite my love of Nantucket, I’m afraid my patience is still rather thin.”

“I’ve never related to my mother more,” Lorelai whispers. Rory hides a laugh behind her tea cup.

“I suppose,” says Shira, “that Savta would be all right – the Hebrew word for grandmother.”

Emily nods in approval. “Lovely. And you, Lorelai?”

“How about Overlord? Beelzebub? Voldemort? I want the baby to learn to pronounce a lot of syllables early on and get a good sense of my personality at the same time.”

Emily swipes Lorelai’s second cookie and places it back in the bowl. She then settles the bowl on her lap, shielding the top with her arms.

“Fine. I don’t have a problem with grandma,” says Lorelai, “but you already have that one. Can I have my cookie back?”

“ _May_ I.”

“Is that a name suggestion? It's definitely unique but wouldn’t be my second choice.”

It takes only one look of frustration from Emily for Lorelai to backtrack.

“Yes, all right," says Lorelai, "I caught the grammar mistake, just trying to make a joke here. Tough crowd. Now,  _may_  I have my cookie back?”

The bowl is back on the table in less than five seconds, but Rory sees Lorelai throw a few cookies into her purse, seemingly unsure whether Emily will pull the stunt a second time.

“What about Lala? Nana? Mimi?” Emily suggests.

“Mom, I think there’s plenty of time to figure this out. It’s February, and Rory’s due in July.”

“But–”

Rory doesn’t catch Emily’s rebuttal. Though entertained by the conversation, she is unable to prevent a massive, teeth-baring, ear-popping yawn.

“Oh, Rory! You’re exhausted! Let’s get you to bed," says Emily, who rises as Berta emerges out of nowhere to gather plates, cups, and saucers. Lorelai appears to panic and adds scones and additional cookies to the collection in her purse. _For later_ , she mouths to Rory, who gets the sense that her mother still feels as if Emily's home is more of a country club-style prison than a place of relaxation and serenity. 

“Goodnight, Shira,” says Emily.

“Goodnight. Thank you for the coffee.”

“Of course.”

The three Gilmores leave the guesthouse, Lorelai carrying the boxed dress. The lamps along the gravel pathway illuminate the way to the main house, and Rory notices that her grandmother has added fountains, flowers, and fairy lights all around the yard.

“Everything looks so pretty, Grandma.”

“Thank you, Rory. I’m glad you like it – there are a few more things arriving tomorrow.”

Rory’s too tired to question Emily further, and Lorelai simply shakes her head as if to say “not worth it.” There will be plenty more to argue about tomorrow, she’s sure, but for now, the silence is welcome – almost as welcome as the bed and fluffy pillow waiting for Rory inside.

 


End file.
